/  6  !/*-*> 


MR.  JUSTICE   DAVID  J  BREWER. 

{Supreme  Court  of  the   United  Stat 
EDITOR   IN  CH11 


'r.    Justice    Brewer    was    appointed    to    the    .Supreme    Bench    of    the 
United  Slates  by  President  Harrison  in  December,  1889.     As  a  prep- 
aration for  that  exalted  position,  he  had  had  an  experience  0 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century  on  the   bench   of  lower  courts,  State  and   Federal. 

■inning  in  1862,  he  served  as  judge  of  the  probate  and  criminal  courts  of 
Leavenworth  County,  Kansas;  judge  of  the  First  District  Court  of  Kansas; 
justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Kansas;  and  judge  of  the  United  States  Cir- 
cuit Court, — a  position  from  which  he  was  promoted  to  the  Supreme  Bench  as 
the  successor  to  Mr.   Justice  Matthews,  of  Ohio. 

Justice  Brewer  is  the  son  of  Rev.  Josiah  Brewer,  who,  as  a  missionary  to 
Asia  Minor,  established  the  first  English  newspaper  in  Smyrna  and  first  intro- 
duced American  methods  of  education  into  the  Turkish  Empire.  His  mother, 
a  sister  of  Mr.  Justice  Field,  accompanied  his  father  to  Asia  Minor  and,  while 
they  were  residents  of  .Smyrna,  <(  David  Josiah  Brewer  »  was  born  there,  June 
20th,  1837.  While  he  was  still  a  child  his  parents  returned  to  America,  and 
he  grew  up  in  Connecticut.  lie  was  educated  at  the  Wesleyan  University,  at 
Vale,  and  at  the  Albany  Daw  School,  studying  also  in  the  law  office  of  his 
uncle,  David  Dudley  Field.  Among  his  classmates  at  Yale  were  Senator 
Chauncey  M.  Depew  and  Mr.  Justice  Brown  of  the  Supreme  Court.  He  is 
an  LL.  D.  of  Yale  and  several  other  universities,  but  has  the  still  higher 
honor  of  having  found  time  to  be  president  of  a  library  association;  chairman 
of  a  school  board;  superintendent  of  public  schools;  and  president  of  the 
Kansas  State  Teachers'  Association.  Since  his  appointment  to  the  Supreme 
Bench  of  the  United  States,  he  has  served  as  a  member  of  the  Venezuela 
Commission  appointed  by  President  Cleveland;  -and  as  a  member  of  the 
British-Vene/Aiela  Arbitration  Tribunal,  selected  by  the  two  nations.  He  has 
done  important  educational  work,  notably  as  a  member  of  the  faculty  of  the 
Columbian  Law  School.  His  address,  «The  Protection  of  Private  Property 
against  Public  Attack, »  delivered  before  the  Vale  Law  School  in  1891,  at- 
tracted wide  attention  and  excited  an  animated  discussion. 

«The  World's  Best  Orations  »  (F.  B.  Kaiser,  St.  Louis,  1899,  ten  volumes)  of 
which  he  was  Editor  in  Chief,  have  been  one  of  the  notable  book-making  suc- 
cesses of  the  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century.  « The  World's  Best  Es- 
says," edited  as  a  companion  collection  for  the  World's  Best  Orations,  represent 
the  same  purposes  and  methods. 


ROYAL    EDITION 


THE 


World's  Best  Gssays 


FROM   THE 

EARLIEST  PERIOD    TO    THE    PRESENT    TIME 


DAVID  J.  BREWER 

EDITOR 

EDWARD    A.    ALLEN  WILLIAM    SCHUYLER 

ASSOCIATE    EDITORS 


TEN     VOLUMES 
VOL.  I. 


ST.  LOUIS 

FERD.   P.  KAISER  ,§• 

1900 


Royal   edition 


LIMITED  TO  1000  COMPLETE  SETS,  OF  WHICH  THIS  IS 


No. 


Copyright  1900 

BY 

FERD.   P.   KAISER 


All  rights  reserved 


EDITOR 


cUsZ&f^ 


PUBLISHER 


THE  WERNER  COMPANY 

PRINTERS    AND    BINDER8 

AKRON,    OHIO 


Santa  bar~'-^  ^— ^JiJ 

762; 


THE   ADVISORY   COUNCIL 


SIR  WALTER  BESANT,  M.  A.,  F.  S.  A., 

Soho  Square,  London  W.,  England. 

PROFESSOR  KUNO  FRANCKE,  Ph.  D., 

Department  of  German,  Harvard  University,  Cambridge,  Mass. 

HIRAM  CORSON,   A.  M.,  LL.  D., 

Department  of  English  Literature,    Cornell  University,  Ithaca,  N.  Y. 

WILLIAM  DRAPER  LEWIS,  Ph.  D., 
Dean  of  the  Department  of  Law, 

University  of  Pennsylvania,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

RICHARD  GOTTHEIL,  Ph.  D., 

Professor  of  Oriental  Languages,  Columbia  University,  New  York  City. 

MRS.  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON, 

Author  « Swallow  Flights, »«  Bed-Time  Stories, w  etc.,  Boston,  Mass. 

WILLIAM  VINCENT  BYARS, 

Manager  The  Valley  Press  Bureau,  St.  Louis. 

F.  M.  CRUNDEN,  A.  M., 

Librarian    St.    Louis    Public    Library;    President    (1890)     American 
Library  Association. 

MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAN,  A.  M.,  LL.  D., 
Professor  of  Ensflish  and  Literature, 

Catholic  University  of  America,  Washington,  D.  C. 

ALCEE  FORTIER,  Lit.  D., 

Professor  of  Romance  Languages,  Tulane  University,  New  Orleans,  La. 

SHELDON  JACKSON,  D.  D.,  LL.  D., 

Bureau  of  Education,  Washington,  D.  C. 

A.  MARSHALL  ELLIOTT,  Ph.  D.,  LL.  D., 
Professor  of  Romance   Languages, 

Johns  Hopkins  University,  Baltimore,  Md. 

WILLIAM  P.  TRENT,  M.  A., 

Professor  of  English  and  History, 

Columbia  University,  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

PROFESSOR  C.  M.  GAYLEY, 

Department  of  English,  University  of  California,  Berkeley,  Cal. 

AUSTIN  H.  MERRILL,  A.M., 

Professor  of  Elocution,  Vanderbilt  University,  Nashville,  Tenn. 

W.  STUART  SYMINGTON,  Jr.,  Ph.D., 

Professor  of  Romance  Languages,      Amherst  College,  Amherst,  Mass. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

VOLUME    I 


LIVED  PAGE 

Preface  xi 

Justice  David  J.  Brewer 

Abercrombie,  John  1780-1844  1 

The  General  Nature  and  Object  of  Science 

Adam,  Madame  1836-  13 

Woman  in  the  Nineteenth  Century 

Addison,  Joseph  1672-1719  17 

The  Spectator  Introduces  Himself 

The  Message  of  the  Stars 

The  Extension  of  the  Female  Neck 

The  Philosophy  of  Puns 

Wit  and  Wisdom  in  Literature 

Women's  Men  and  Their  Ways 

The  Poetry  of  the  Common  People 

Chevy  Chase 

The  Vision  of  Mirza 

The  Unaccountable  Humor  in  Womankind 

(<  Dominus  Regit  Me  w 

Homer  and  Milton 

The  Mountain  of  Miseries 

Steele  Introduces  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley 

Addison  Meets  Sir  Roger 

Sir  Roger  at  Home 

Will  Wimble  Is  Introduced 

The  Coverley  Ghosts 

Sunday  with  Sir  Roger 

The  Spectator  Returns  to  London 

Sir  Roger  Again  in  London 

Sir  Roger  in  Westminster  Abbey 

Sir  Roger's  Views  on  Beards 


VI 


LIVED  PAGE 


Addison,  Joseph — Continued: 

Sir  Roger  at  the  Play 
Death  of  Sir  Roger 

Agassiz,  Jean  Louis  Rodolphe  1807-1873  no 

Relations  between  Animals  and  Plants  and  the  Sur- 
rounding World 
Relations  of  Individuals  to  One  Another 
Mutual   Dependence   of   the   Animal  and  Vegetable 
Kingdoms 

Alcott,  Amos  Bronson  1799-1888  117 

The  Age  of  Iron  and  Bronze 

Hawthorne 

Sleep  and  Dreams 

Alger,  William  Rounseville  1822-  125 

The  Lyric  Poetry  of  Persia 

Alison,  Sir  Archibald  1792-1867  135 

The  Future  of  America 

Homer,  Dante,  and  Michael  Angelo 

Allen,  Grant  1848-1899  142 

Scientific  Aspects  of  Falling  in  Love 

Allston,  Washington  1799-1843  149 

Human  Art  and  Infinite  Truth 
Praise  as  a  Duty 
Life  as  a  Test  of  Fitness 
Art  and  Religion 

Amicis,  Edmondo  de  1846-  157 

The  Shams,  Shamelessness,  and  Delights  of  Paris 

Amiel,  Henri  Frederic  1821-1881  165 

A  Soap  Bubble  Hanging  from  a  Reed 
(<  John  Halifax,  Gentleman  » 
Mozart  and  Beethoven 

Aquinas,  Saint  Thomas  c.  1225-1274  173 

The  Effects  of  Love 

Of  Hatred 

What  is  Happiness  ? 


Vll 


Arago,  Francois  Jean  Dominique 

The  Central  Fires  of  the  Earth 

Argyle,  The  Duke  of 

The  Unity  of  Nature 


LIVED 
1786-1853 


I  823- 1 9OO 


384-322  B.  C. 


Aristotle 

The  Poetics  of  Aristotle 
The  Dispositions  Consequent  on  Wealth 
The  Dispositions  of  Men  in  Power,  and  of  the  Fortu- 
nate 


Arnold,  Matthew 

A  Final  Word  on  America 

The  Real  Burns 

<( Sweetness  and  Light" 


1822-1888 


Arrian 


The  «  Enchiridion  » 


c.  95-^.  180  A.  D. 


1515-1568 


Ascham,  Roger 

The  Education  of  a  Gentleman 
The  Literature  of  Chivalry 

Athen^eus  Third  Century  A.  D. 

What  Men  Fight  about  Most 


Atterbury,  Francis 

Harmony  and  the  Passions 


1662-1732 


Audubon,  John  James  1780-1851 

The  Humming  Bird  and  the  Poetry  of  Spring 
Life  in  the  Woods 
The  Mocking  Bird 
The  Wood  Thrush 

Augustine,  Saint  354-430  A.  D. 

Concerning  Imperial  Power  and  the  Kingdom  of 
God 

Kingdoms  without  Justice  Like  unto  Thievish  Pur- 
chases 

Domestic  Manifestations  of  the  Roman  Spirit  of 
Conquest 


PAGE 

179 


183 


188 


230 


243 


264 


272 


276 


279 


286 


Vlll 


Aurelius,  Marcus 

Meditations  on  the  Highest  Usefulness 

Austin,  Alfred 

The  Apostle  of  Culture 


LIVED 

c.  121-180  A.  D. 


1835- 


I 561—1626 


Bacon,  Francis 

Of  Truth 

Of  Death 

Of  Revenge 

Of  Adversity 

Of  Simulation  and  Dissimulation 

Of  Parents  and  Children 

Of  Marriage  and  Single  Life 

Of  Envy 

Of  Love 

Of  Great  Place 

Of  Boldness 

Of  Goodness,  and  Goodness  of  Nature 

Of  Atheism 

Of  Superstition 

Of  Negotiating 

Of  Studies 

Of  Praise 

Of  Vainglory 

Of  Honor  and  Reputation 

Of  Anger 

Of  Riches 

Of  Nature  in  Men 

Of  Custom  and  Education 

Of  Fortune 

Of  Usury 

Of  Youth  and  Age 

Of  Beauty 

Of  Delays 

Of  Cunning 

Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self 

Of  Innovations 

The  Advancement  of  Learning 

The  Central  Thought  of  the  ((  Novum  Organum  * 


PAGE 

290 


302 


308 


Bagehot,  Walter 

The  Natural  Mind  in  Man 


182^-1877 


372 


LIVED 

PAGE 

l8l8- 

375 

184O- 

381 

I799-185O 

385 

IX 


Bain,  Alexander 

What  It  Costs  to  Feel  and  Think 

Ball,  Sir  Robert 

Life  in  Other  Worlds 

Balzac,  Honore  de 

Saint  Paul  as  a  Prophet  of  Progress 
Walter  Scott  and  Fenimore  Cooper 

Bancroft,  George  1 800-1 891  389 

The  Ruling  Passion  in  Death 

Bathurst,  Richard  (?)-i762  399 

The  History  of  a  Half-Penny 

Baudelaire,  Charles  1 821-1867  404 

The  Gallant  Marksman 
At  Twilight 
The  Clock 

Bayle,  Pierre  1647-1706  408 

The  Greatest  of  Philosophers 

Beattie,  James  1735-1803  413 

An  Essay  on  Laughter 


FULL-PAGE   ILLUSTRATIONS 

VOLUME    I 


PAGE 

Justice  David  J.  Brewer  (Portrait,  Photogravure)        Frontispiece 

Joseph  Addison  (Portrait,  Photogravure)  17 

Rev.  Lancelot  Addison's  Parsonage  (Photogravure)  77 

Jean  Louis  Rodolphe  Agassiz  (Portrait,  Photogravure)  no 

Michael  Angelo  and  Pope  Julius  II.  Viewing  the  Apollo 

Belvidere  (Photogravure)  138 

Aristotle  (Portrait,  Photogravure)  188 

John  James  Audubon  (Portrait,  Photogravure)  279 

Francis  Bacon  (Photogravure)  308 


Xlll 


PREFACE 


Iless  the  essayist!  He  is  our  true  literary  friend.  He  in- 
structs, entertains,  or  amuses  us,  and  he  does  it  quickly. 
He  knows  that  in  these  rapid  days  time  is  of  the  essence 
of  the  contract  and  is  always  on  time  in  closing.  He  gives  us  no 
preface,  puts  no  "stump  speech  in  the  belly  of  the  bill,8  and  does 
not  detain  us  by  a  peroration  or  even  a  benediction.  The  latter 
we  pronounce.  He  points  to  no  quarto  or  folio  as  his  accumulation 
of  thought.  He  hands  us  a  morsel,  bids  us  taste  its  sweetness,  smell 
its  fragrance,  and  be  thankful  that  it  is  only  a  morsel.  He  invites  us 
to  a  lunch  and  not  a  dinner,  and  yet  how  choice  is  that  lunch! 
Ganymede  serves  at  the  table.  With  him  it  is  not  quantity,  but 
quality ;  multum  haud  multa.  He  has  few  words,  but  they  are  thought- 
bearers.  They  mean  something;  suggest  something.  We  are  stronger, 
better,  happier,  when  we  have  read  them.  And  this,  because  some 
one  thought  has  been  placed  before  us  so  clearly,  so  vividly,  that 
we  recognize  its  reality,  its  value,  as  never  before. 

The  essayist  has  often  the  suggestiveness,  the  divination  of  the 
poet.  Indeed,  he  may  well  be  called  the  poet's  cousin.  They  both 
are  seers,  prophets.  Montaigne  anticipated  the  France  of  to-day. 
Rolling  a  single  idea  over  and  over,  he  sees  what  its  force  is,  what 
its  tendency;  and  so  seeing  declares  with  the  accuracy  of  the  me- 
chanical engineer  what  will  be  to-morrow's  result  of  to-day's  idea. 

But  the  essayist  has  not  always  the  solemnity  of  the  prophet. 
He  knows  that  we  like  to  be  pleased,  to  be  amused,  and  with  his 
gifted  pen  he  touches  the  secret  springs  of  pleasure  and  amusement. 
How  often  when  tired  do  we  pick  up  some  friendly  essay,  and  read- 
ing it  find  it  potent  to  <(  drive  dull  care  away. >} 


XIV 

To  many,  an  essay  suggests  something  not  only  small,  but  crude. 
One  of  the  definitions  of  the  word  is  <(  attempt. »  And  so  to  them 
an  essay  is  a  mere  attempt  at  literary  production,  which,  by  reason 
of  its  imperfections  and  incompleteness,  deserves  no  or  only  partial 
recognition.  At  the  mention  of  the  word,  the  mind  involuntarily 
recalls  the  annual  commencements  of  the  various  high  schools,  acad- 
emies, and  other  educational  institutions,  and  fancies  that  it  sees  ten 
thousand  young  men  and  women  standing  on  the  platform,  in  the 
best  of  black  suits,  or  the  whitest  of  white  dresses,  and  filling  the 
hearts  of  at  least  loving  and  hopeful  parents  and  friends  with  won- 
der and  admiration  at  their  first  literary  efforts, —  their  essays.  The 
more  ambitious  graduates  call  their  productions  orations,  but  the 
great  majority  name  theirs  essays.  That  word  is  much  less  pre- 
tentious. And  in  this  connection  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  grad- 
uates in  advanced  courses  of  the  higher  institutions,  as  well  as  they 
who  return  to  claim  a  higher  academic  degree,  do  not  content  them- 
selves with  essays,  but  always  prepare  theses.  The  difference  be- 
tween an  essay  and  a  thesis  seems  large,  and  they  forget  that  a 
rose  by  any  other  name  will  smell  as  sweet. 

As  suggested,  this  common  thought  as  to  essays  is  correct,  in  re- 
spect to  the  matter  of  brevity.  The  essay  is  relatively  short.  It 
has  not  the  ponderous  length  of  the  historical  work,  theological 
treatise,  or  book  on  science  or  political  economy.  And  yet  brevity 
is  no  vice  in  literature  or  elsewhere.  It  is  the  soul  of  wit.  And  so 
an  essay  commends  itself  by  its  very  brevity.     We  read  it  quickly. 

But  mere  brevity  does  not  make  every  literary  composition  an 
essay.  The  news  paragraphs  with  which  our  daily  papers  teem  are 
not  essays.  Novelettes  or  short  stories  are  not  essays.  Indeed,  it 
may  be  said  that  no  mere  narrative  of  events,  description  of  scenes, 
or  story,  can  be  called  an  essay.  Yet  each  may  rightfully  be  used 
in  an  essay  to  make  more  clear  and  vivid  the  thought  of  the  writer. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  the  editorial  columns  of  the  press  are 
often  essays,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  For  they  are  brief  argu- 
ments in  support  of  some  proposition  of  politics,  finance,  or  social 
economy;  brief  developments  of  some  thought,  interesting,  or  sup- 
posed to  interest  the  public  mind. 


XV 

The  charm  of  the  essay,  it  may  be  added,  is  not  only  its  brevity, 
but  also  in  a  certain  sense  its  narrowness.  The  attention  is  called 
to  a  single  matter,  its  development,  its  relations,  and  its  suggestive- 
ness.  We  are  not  burdened  with  many  things;  with  either  length 
or  breadth.  We,  of  course,  are  not  content  with  a  simple  collocation 
of  words,  a  mere  display  of  rhetoric;  but  we  expect  and  have  a 
right  to  expect  that  some  thought  will  be  fully  presented;  and  in 
the  more  ambitious,  that  the  relations  of  that  thought  to  life  and  its 
experiences  will  also  be  suggested.  As  Lord  Bacon,  the  prince  of 
essayists,  quaintly  says :  — 

«To  write  just  treatises  requireth  leisure  in  the  writer  and  leisure  in 
the  reader, —  which  is  the  cause  that  hath  made  me  choose  to  write  certain 
brief  notes,  set  down  rather  significantly  than  curiously,  which  I  have  called 
Essays.     The  word  is  late,  but  the  thing  is  ancient. w 

The  literary  style  of  the  essay  varies,  determined  always  by  the 
character  of  its  thought,  the  subject-matter.  If  that  be  a  serious 
one,  we  look  for  a  solemn,  didactic,  style ;  if  of  a  lighter  nature,  an 
easier,  gayer,  flow  of  words.  And  one  of  the  beauties  of  the  essay 
is  the  adaptation  of  style  to  thought.  There  is  that  harmony  be- 
tween thought  and  expression,  the  significance  of  which  we  under- 
stand, when  we  speak  of  the  fitness  of  things. 

Alexander  Smith  says,  in  his  essay  on  the  ((  Writing  of  Essays, w — 
<(  The  essay,  as  a  literary  form,  resembles  the  lyric,  in  so  far  as 
it  is  molded  by  some  central  mood, — whimsical,  serious,  or  satirical. 
Give  the  mood,  and  the  essay,  from  the  first  sentence  to  the  last, 
grows  around  it  as  the  cocoon  grows  around  the  silkworm.  The 
essay  writer  is  a  chartered  libertine,  and  a  law  unto  himself.  A 
quick  ear  and  eye,  an  ability  to  discern  the  infinite  suggestiveness 
of  common  things,  a  brooding  meditative  spirit,  are  all  that  the 
essayist  requires  to  start  business  with.0 

The  essayist  carries  a  free  lance.  The  world  is  his  range.  He 
grapples  the  most  serious  things  of  time  and  eternity,  of  life  and 
death,  or  the  most  frivolous  fancies  of  the  passing  hour.  And  his 
answer  must  in  its  movement  be  in  harmony  with  the  thought  he 
presents.  We  take  Lord  Bacon's  essays,  and  as  we  read  his  thoughts 
on    the    earnest    matters    of   life    we    find   his   literary   style   in    full 


XVI 

accord  therewith.  Clear,  didactic,  solemn,  we  feel  that  a  preacher  is 
talking  to  us,  and  as  we  read  we  know  that  he  never  wrote  Shakes- 
peare's plays. 

We  read  Charles  Lamb  and  are  rested,  as  his  sweet,  playful  words 
pass  before  us.  How  he  loved  the  bright,  sunny  side  of  life!  The 
humor,  the  delicate  touch,  the  gentle  picture  of  our  weaknesses, 
amuse  and  interest  us.  As  we  lay  his  essays  down,  we  can  but  think 
how  his  friends  must  have  enjoyed  his  companionship. 

And  so  we  might  go  on  and  characterize  the  various  essayists  of 
the  world.  They  have  given  us  the  choice  bits  of  literature.  They 
are  not  mere  mechanical  forces.  They  work  in  harmony  with  nature 
in  its  highest  processes.  They  do  not  take  literature  and  simply 
compress  it.  They  do  not  give  us  condensed  milk,  but  in  sym- 
pathy with  that  subtle,  higher,  mysterious  action  of  nature's  forces, 
they  work  out  from  the  milk  of  life  the  richer,  more  nourishing  and 
comforting  cream :  and  so  every  one  invokes  blessings  upon  the 
essayist. 

With  these  preliminary  words  we  pass  on  to  say  that  in  these 
volumes  we  have  tried  to  extract  the  cream  of  the  cream.  If  any 
one  thinks  that  this  selection  is  an  easy  work,  he  does  not  know 
the  range  of  the  essay.  And  justice  to  myself,  and  to  the  others 
connected  with  this  publication,  compels  me  to  add  that  the  credit 
for  the  work  belongs  to  them  rather  than  to  me.  I  say  this  not  out 
of  compliment,  but  because  of  its  truth. 

Further,  we  have  had  before  us  the  same  general  idea  that  was 
pursued  in  ((The  World's  Best  Orations. w  We  did  not  then  take  all 
the  great  orations  of  even  the  world's  greatest  orators.  We  aimed 
to  present  a  comparative  view.  We  sought  to  show  by  illustration 
the  range  of  oratory,  and  by  placing  before  the  reader  some  entire 
orations  of  the  greatest  orators,  and  selections  from  those  of  lesser 
rank,  to  present  a  sort  of  historical  epitome  or  encyclopaedia  of  ora- 
tory. We  believed  that  such  a  compilation  was  better  than  a  vol- 
ume of  statistics,  and  yet  in  a  certain  sense  subserved  the  same 
purpose.  It  was  not  a  mere  collection  of  figures,  such  as  the  census 
bureau  gives,  but  a  gathering  of  those  speeches  which  have  moved 
and  affected  the  world's  history. 


XV11 

That  the  work  was  not  exhaustive  may  be  conceded,  for  after  its 
completion  in  ten  volumes  we  measured  the  mass  of  material  which 
had  been  collected  and  examined,  and  found  that  we  could  have 
printed  forty-six  additional  volumes.  And  while  our  selections  may 
not  have  accorded  with  the  views  of  every  one,  we  have  been  grati- 
fied by  the  hearty  reception  that  work  has  received. 

In  the  like  spirit,  and  with  like  purpose,  we  present  this  collec- 
tion of  (<The  World's  Best  Essays.  *  Giving  prominence  and  prefer- 
ence to  those  who  have  written  in  our  own  language  (for  this  work 
is  designed  primarily  for  the  benefit  of  the  American  reader),  we  have 
searched  the  literature  of  all  nations  and  languages  for  their  best 
essays,  have  had  careful  and  accurate  translations  made,  and,  placing 
them  beside  the  writings  of  our  own  essayists,  have  thus  sought  to 
justify  the  title  given  to  this  work. 

We  have  not  attempted  to  enforce  any  particular  views  in  respect 
to  religion,  science,  political  economy,  or  other  department  of  life, 
but  in  the  most  catholic  spirit  have  aimed  to  give  some  represen- 
tation of  the  writings  of  every  one  who  has  succeeded  in  placing  his 
name  on  the  long  roll  of  the  world's  true  essayists. 

And  trusting  that  the  reader  will  find  in  these  pages  ample  com- 
pensation for  his  patience  in  perusing,  we  commit  our  collection  to 
the  kindly  judgment  of  the  American  public. 

c: 


JOHN   ABERCROMBIE 

(1780-1844) 

Jbercrombie's  definition  of  the  object  of  science  was  dictated 
by  a  deep  consciousness  of  the  supernatural  origin  of  nature, 
and  it  has  served  to  discredit  him  with  some  later  writers 
who  hold  that  the  supernatural  is  <(  unknowable. w  His  essays  on  the 
(<  Intellectual  Powers, B  on  the  (<  Philosophy  of  the  Moral  Feelings, w  and 
allied  topics  have  not  been  discredited  with  the  general  public,  how- 
ever, by  the  change  of  scientific  terminology,  and  it  is  by  no  means 
certain  that  any  later  writer  —  not  even  Mr.  Spencer  himself  —  has 
succeeded  in  putting  into  intelligible  and  accurate  English  so  many 
well-defined  ideas  of  fundamental  importance  as  guided  Abercrombie 
in  the  composition  of  such  essays  as  that  on  the  <(  General  Nature 
and  Objects  of  Science  B  with  which  he  introduced  his  essays  on  the 
<(  Intellectual  Powers. B 

He  differs  from  some  later  writers  on  similar  topics  because  of 
his  recognition  of  law  in  nature  as  a  tendency  resulting  from  an 
infinite  power  of  improvement  imposed  on  nature  rather  than  as  a 
necessary  and  inherent  quality  of  matter  itself.  To  him  nature  pre- 
sented a  harmony  of  forces  working  to  produce  results  tending  to  a 
more  nearly  perfect  harmony.  It  is  said  that  in  his  religious  life  he 
was  <(  unaffectedly  pious, B  but  this  involved  him  in  no  contradiction 
when,  writing  before  Professor  Huxley,  he  stated  the  scientific  principle 
of  Huxley's  "agnosticism. B  That  final  causes  are  beyond  the  reach  of 
chemical  analysis  and  that  they  are  never  to  be  reached  by  micro- 
scopic investigation,  he  insists  in  his  analysis  of  the  powers  of  the 
intellect.  But  he  recognized  this  as  a  mere  matter  of  definition, —  an 
implication  of  the  word  (<  knowledge B  itself  as  it  implies  the  results 
of  experience  and  as  it  is  distinct  in  meaning  from  <(  consciousness. B 
Professor  Max  Miiller  in  his  <(  Science  of  Thought B  expresses  the 
same  idea  by  quoting: 

<(We  have  but  faith;  we  cannot  know, 
For  Knowledge  is  of  things  we  see!" 

Intellect  to  Abercrombie  is  a  mere  mode  of  operation, — a  method 
by  which  the  human  soul  takes  hold  on  the  transitory  phenomena  of 
a  natural  order  in  which    a   Supreme  Will   is    eternally   operating   to 
1 — 1 


2  JOHN   ABERCROMBIE 

produce  infinite  improvement.  It  is  said  by  his  critics  that  he  does 
not  show  (<  marked  originality  •  in  such  ideas  and  it  is  in  the  nature 
of  things  impossible  that  he  should.  They  are  as  old  as  the  Chal- 
dean science  which  expresses  itself  through  the  metaphors  of  the 
Book  of  Job.  They  belong  to  all  poets  and  creative  thinkers  from 
Homer  to  Goethe.  Aristotle  appropriated  them  as  the  foundation 
principles  of  his  school,  and  they  are  no  less  the  foundations  of  the 
(<  Novum  Organum  *  when,  with  the  premise  that  <(  the  beginning  is 
from  God,"  Bacon  declares  that  (<  the  induction  which  is  to  be  avail- 
able for  the  discovery  of  science  and  arts  must  analyze  nature  by 
proper  rejections  and  exclusions  .  .  .  not  only  to  discover  axioms, 
but  also  in  the  formation  of  notions;  and  it  is  in  this  induction  that 
our  chief  hope  lies.* 

This  observation  of  all  possible  operations  of  nature  as  part  of  a 
Supreme  Law  not  governed  by  the  qualities  of  matter,  but  operating 
harmoniously  through  them,  Bacon  proposed  as  the  reasonable  mode 
through  which  alone  the  scientific  intelligence  can  act.  Certainly 
there  is  nothing  of  novelty  in  Abercrombie,  writing  after  him.  If 
novelty  or  originality  be  possible  in  thought,  it  is  by  no  means  estab- 
lished that  it  is  desirable,  and  the  question  which  is  finally  to  deter- 
mine the  merits  of  any  thinker  is  not  (<  Is  he  original  ?w  but  (<Is  he 
right  ?"  Tried  by  that  test  Abercrombie  is  perhaps  as  little  apt  to  be 
discredited  as  any  later  writer  on  the  subjects  which  occupied  his 
attention. 

He  was  born  in  1780  at  Aberdeen,  Scotland,  and  educated  in  med- 
icine at  its  university  and  in  London.  For  a  long  time  he  held  the 
first  rank  among  the  physicians  and  scientific  writers  of  Scotland. 
His  (< Inquiries  Concerning  the  Intellectual  Powers  of  Man"  was  pub- 
lished in  1830  and  three  years  later  he  followed  it  with  (<  The  Phi- 
losophy of  the  Moral  Feelings."  In  1835  he  became  Lord  Rector  of 
Marischal  College  at  Aberdeen,  and,  until  his  death  in  1844,  Scotland 
honored  him  as  one  of  its  greatest  thinkers.  His  essays  have  passed 
through  many  editions,  and  still  retain  a  popularity  due  to  their  ease 
of  style  and  the  lucidity  of  the  language  in  which  they  express  ideas 
which  some  writers  on  similar  topics  succeed  in  making  incompre- 
hensible. W.  V.  B. 


JOHN    ABERCROMBIE 


THE   GENERAL   NATURE   AND    OBJECTS   OF    SCIENCE 

By  the  will  of  the  Almighty  Creator,  all  things  in  nature  have 
been  placed  in  certain  relations  to  each  other,  which  are 
fixed  and  uniform.  In  other  words,  they  have  been  en- 
dowed with  capacities  of  acting  and  capabilities  of  being  acted 
upon,  according  to  certain  uniform  laws;  so  that  their  actions 
take  place  in  the  same  manner  in  every  instance  in  which  the 
same  bodies  are  brought  together  under  similar  circumstances. 
We  have  a  conviction,  which  appears  to  be  original  and  instinc- 
tive, of  the  general  uniformity  of  these  relations;  and  in  this 
consists  our  confidence  in  the  regularity  of  all  the  operations  of 
nature.  But  the  powers  or  principles  on  which  the  relations  de- 
pend are  entirely  hidden  from  us  in  our  present  state  of  being. 
The  province  of  human  knowledge  is  merely  to  observe  the 
facts  and  to  trace  what  their  relations  or  sequences  are.  This 
is  to  be  accomplished  only  by  a  careful  and  extensive  observa- 
tion of  the  facts  as  they  pass  before  us,  and  by  carefully  distin- 
guishing their  true  or  uniform  relations  from  connections  which 
are  only  incidental  and  temporary. 

In  our  first  observation  of  any  particular  series  of  facts  or 
events,  we  find  a  certain  number  of  them  placed  together  in  a 
state  of  contiguity  or  apparent  connection.  But  we  are  not  en- 
titled from  this  to  assume  the  connection  to  be  anything  more 
than  incidental  juxtaposition.  When,  in  the  further  progress  of 
observation,  we  find  the  same  events  occurring  a  certain  number 
of  times,  in  the  same  relations  or  sequences  to  each  other,  we 
suspect  that  their  connection  is  not  merely  that  of  incidental  con- 
tiguity. We  begin  to  believe  that  there  exists  among  them  such 
a  relation  as  leads  us,  when  we  meet  with  some  of  these  events, 
to  expect  that  certain  others  are  to  follow.  Hence  is  excited  our 
idea  of  power  in  reference  to  these  events,  or  of  the  relation  of 
cause  and  effect.  This  relation,  however,  according  to  the  utmost 
extent  of  our  knowledge  of  it  in  any  individual  instance,  is  founded 
entirely  upon  the  fact  of  certain  events  uniformly  following  one 
another.  But  when  we  have  found,  by  sufficient  observation,  the 
particular  events  which  do  thus  follow  one  another,  we  conclude 
that  there  is  a  connection,  whatever  may  be  the  nature  of  it,  in 
consequence  of  which  the  sequence  which  we  have  observed  will 
continue    to    recur   in    the    same    fixed   and   uniform    manner.      In 


4  JOHN    ABERCROMBIE 

other  words,  we  conclude  with  confidence  that  when  we  observe 
the  first  of  two  such  events,  the  second  will  follow;  and  that 
when  we  observe  the  second,  the  first  has  preceded  it.  The  first 
we  call  cause,  the  second  effect.  Thus  our  general  confidence  in 
the  uniformity  of  the  true  relations  or  sequences  of  events  is  an 
original  or  instinctive  principle,  and  not  the  result  of  experience; 
but  it  is  by  experience  that  we  ascertain  what  the  individual 
sequences  are  which  observe  this  uniformity,  or,  in  other  words, 
learn  to  distinguish  connections  which  consist  of  incidental  con- 
tiguity from  those  which  constitute  true  and  uniform  relations. 

The  natural  tendency  of  the  mind  appears  indeed  to  be  to 
infer  causation  from  every  succession  of  phenomena  and  to  ex- 
pect uniformity  in  every  sequence.  It  is  from  experience  we 
learn  that  this  impression  is  not  to  be  relied  on  in  regard  to  in- 
dividual sequences,  but  requires  to  be  corrected  by  observation. 
The  result  of  our  further  experience  then  is  to  ascertain  what 
those  sequences  or  connections  are  which  are  uniform,  and  which, 
consequently,  we  may  consider  as  connected  in  the  manner  of 
causation.  We  are  thus  first  taught  by  experience  the  caution 
which  is  necessary  in  considering  events  as  connected  in  the 
manner  of  cause  and  effect,  and  learn  not  to  assume  this  relation 
till,  by  further  experience,  we  have  ascertained  that  the  sequence 
is  uniform.  This  caution,  however,  has  no  reference  to  our  in- 
stinctive impression  of  causation,  or  our  absolute  conviction  that 
every  event  must  have  an  adequate  cause;  it  only  relates  to  our 
fixing  the  arrangement  of  individual  antecedents,  or,  in  other 
words,  to  our  determining  what  individual  events  we  are  war- 
ranted in  considering  as  the  true  antecedents  or  causes  of  certain 
other  events.  This,  accordingly,  can  in  many  cases  be  accom- 
plished only  by  long  and  extensive  observation;  while,  in  others, 
a  single  instance  may  be  sufficient  to  produce  an  absolute  convic- 
tion of  what  is  the  true  antecedent.  A  child  who  has  been  only 
once  burnt  may  dread  the  fire  as  certainly  as  if  the  accident  had 
happened  a  hundred  times;  and  there  are  many  other  instances 
in  which  the  conviction  may  be  produced  in  the  same  rapid  man- 
ner. The  natural  tendency  of  the  mind,  in  fact,  is  not  only  to 
infer  the  connection,  but  in  many  cases  to  carry  it  further  than 
the  truth.  If,  for  instance,  we  suppose  a  man  who,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  has  seen  gunpowder  explode  upon  a  match  be- 
ing applied  to  it,  he  would  probably  have  an  immediate  convic- 
tion   that    a  similar   explosion   would   take  place  again   in    similar 


JOHN   ABERCROMBIE  5 

circumstances.  But  he  would  perhaps  go  further  than  this:  he 
would  probably  expect  a  similar  explosion  when  he  applied  a 
match  to  other  black  powders,  with  the  nature  of  which  he  was 
unacquainted,  such  as  powdered  charcoal.  It  is  by  experience 
that  this  erroneous  expectation  would  be  corrected,  and  that  he 
would  learn  the  precise  instances  in  which  the  particular  result 
takes  place.  But  it  is  also  by  experience  that  he  learns  the 
former,  though  the  conviction  was  produced  more  immediately; 
for  there  is  nothing  in  the  character  of  gunpowder  and  char- 
coal from  which  any  man  could  pronounce,  by  reasoning  a  priori, 
that  the  one  would  explode  with  violence  when  a  match  was  ap- 
plied to  it  and  the  other  remain  entirely  unchanged. 

Thus,  our  general  impression  of  causation  is  not  the  result  of 
experience,  but  an  original  and  intuitive  principle  of  belief;  that 
is,  our  absolute  conviction  that  every  event  must  have  an  ade- 
quate cause.  This  is,  in  fact,  that  great  and  fundamental  truth 
by  which,  from  the  properties  of  a  known  effect,  we  infer  the 
powers  and  qualities  of  an  unknown  cause.  It  is  in  this  man- 
ner, for  example,  that  from  the  works  of  nature  we  infer  the  ex- 
istence and  the  attributes  of  the  Almighty  Creator.  But  in 
judging  of  the  connection  between  any  two  individual  events  in 
that  order  of  things  which  he  has  established,  our  idea  of  causa- 
tion is  derived  from  experience  alone;  for,  in  regard  to  any 
two  such  events,  our  idea  of  causation  or  of  power  amounts  to 
nothing  more  than  our  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  the  one  is 
invariably  the  antecedent  of  the  other.  Of  the  mysterious  agency 
on  which  the  connection  depends,  we  know  nothing,  and  never 
can  know  anything  in  our  present  state  of  being.  We  know  that 
the  application  of  a  match  always  sets  fire  to  gunpowder,  and  we 
say  that  it  has  the  power  of  doing  so,  or  that  it  is  the  cause  of 
the  explosion;  but  we  have  not  the  least  conception  why  the 
application  of  fire  produces  combustion  in  an  inflammable  sub- 
stance;—  these  expressions,  therefore,  amount  to  nothing  more 
than  a  statement  of  the  fact  that  the  result  is  universal. 

When  we  speak,  therefore,  of  physical  causes,  in  regard  to 
any  of  the  phenomena  of  nature,  we  mean  nothing  more  than 
the  fact  of  a  certain  uniform  connection  which  has  been  observed 
between  events.  Of  efficient  causes,  or  the  manner  in  which  the 
result  takes  place,  we  know  nothing.  In  this  sense,  indeed,  we 
may  be  said  not  to  know  the  cause  of  anything,  even  of  events 
which  at  first  sight  appear  the  most  simple  and  obvious.      Thus, 


6  JOHN   ABERCROMBIE 

the  communication  of  motion  from  one  body  to  another  by  im- 
pulse appears  a  very  simple  phenomenon, —  but  how  little  idea 
have  we  of  the  cause  of  it!  We  say  the  bodies  touch  each  other, 
and  so  the  motion  is  communicated.  But,  in  the  first  place,  we 
cannot  say  why  a  body  in  motion,  coming  in  contact  with  one  at 
rest,  should  put  the  latter  in  motion;  and,  further,  we  know  that 
they  do  not  come  in  contact.  We  may  consider  it,  indeed,  as 
ascertained  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  the  actual  contact  of 
bodies  under  these  circumstances;  and  therefore  the  fact  which 
appears  so  simple  comes  to  be  as  unaccountable  as  any  phenom- 
enon in  nature.  What,  again,  appears  more  intelligible  than  an 
unsupported  body  falling  to  the  ground  ?  Yet  what  is  more  in- 
explicable than  that  one  mass  of  matter  should  thus  act  upon 
another,  at  any  distance,  and  even  though  a  vacuum  be  inter- 
posed between  them  ?  The  same  observation  will  be  seen  to 
apply  to  all  the  facts  which  are  most  familiar  to  us.  Why,  for 
example,  one  medicine  acts  upon  the  stomach,  another  on  the 
bowels,  a  third  on  the  kidneys,  a  fourth  on  the  skin,  we  have 
not  the  smallest  conception;  we  know  only  the  uniformity  of  the 
facts. 

It  is  of  importance  to  keep  in  mind  the  distinction  now  re- 
ferred to  between  physical  and  efficient  causes,  as  the  former 
only  are  the  proper  objects  of  philosophical  inquiry.  The  term 
final  cause,  again,  has  been  applied  to  a  subject  entirely  differ- 
ent; namely,  to  the  appearances  of  unity  of  design  in  the  phe- 
nomena of  nature,  and  the  manner  in  which  means  are  adapted 
to  particular  ends.  The  subject  is  one  of  great  and  extensive 
importance,  but  it  appears  desirable  that  the  name  be  altered, 
though  it  is  sanctioned  by  high  authority;  for,  when  viewed  in 
connection  with  the  sense  in  which  the  word  cause  is  employed 
in  modern  science,  it  expresses  a  meaning  remarkably  different. 
The  investigation  to  which  it  refers  is  also  of  a  distinct  nature, 
though  one  of  the  highest  interest.  It  leads  us  chiefly  to  the 
inductions  of  natural  religion  respecting  a  great  and  intelligent 
First  Cause;  but  it  may  also  be  directed  to  the  discovery  of 
truth  in  regard  to  the  phenomena  of  nature.  One  of  the  most 
remarkable  examples  of  this  last  application  of  it  is  to  be  found 
in  the  manner  in  which  Harvey  was  led  to  the  discovery  of  the 
circulation  of  the  blood,  by  observing  the  valves  in  the  veins, 
and  contemplating  the  uses  to  which  their  peculiar  structure 
might  be  adapted. 


JOHN   ABERCROMBIE  7 

The  object  of  all  science  is  to  ascertain  these  established  re- 
lations of  things,  or  the  tendency  of  certain  events  to  be  uni- 
formly followed  by  certain  other  events;  in  other  words,  the 
aptitude  of  certain  bodies  to  produce  or  to  be  followed  by  certain 
changes  in  other  bodies  in  particular  circumstances.  The  object 
of  art  is  to  avail  ourselves  of  the  knowledge  thus  acquired,  by 
bringing  bodies  into  such  circumstances  as  are  calculated  to  lead 
to  those  actions  upon  each  other  of  which  we  have  ascertained 
them  to  be  capable.  Art,  therefore,  or  the  production  of  certain 
results  by  the  action  of  bodies  upon  each  other,  must  be  founded 
upon  science,  or  a  knowledge  of  their  fixed  and  uniform  relations 
and  tendencies.  This  principle  applies  to  all  sciences,  and  to 
the  arts  or  practical  rules  which  are  founded  upon  them;  and  the 
various  sciences  differ  only  in  the  particular  substances  or  events 
which  are  their  more  immediate  objects. 

In  the  physical  sciences,  we  investigate  the  relations  of  ma- 
terial substances,  and  their  actions  upon  each  other,  either  of  a 
mechanical  or  chemical  nature.  On  the  relations  thus  ascertained 
are  founded  the  mechanical  and  chemical  arts,  in  which  we  pro- 
duce certain  results  by  bringing  bodies  into  such  circumstances 
as  are  calculated  to  give  rise  to  their  peculiar  actions.  But  men- 
tal phenomena  have  also  their  relations,  which  are  likewise  fixed 
and  uniform;  though  it  may  be  more  difficult  to  ascertain  the 
truth  in  regard  to  them  than  in  the  relations  of  material  things. 

The  relations  or  sequences  of  mental  phenomena  are  to  be 
considered  in  two  points  of  view;  namely,  relations  to  each  other, 
and  relations  to  external  things.  In  regard  to  both,  it  seems 
necessary  to  divide  the  phenomena  themselves  into  three  classes: 

1.  Simple  intellect,  or  those  powers  by  which  we  perceive,  remem- 
ber, and  combine  facts  or  events,  and  compare  them  with  each 
other :    such  as  perception,  memory,  imagination,  and  judgment. 

2.  Passive  emotions,  or  those  by  which  the  mind  is  affected  by 
certain  pleasurable  or  painful  feelings,  which  are,  or  may  be,  confined 
entirely  to  the  individual  who  is  the  subject  of  them. 

3.  Active  emotions,  or  those  which  tend  directly  to  influence  the 
conduct  of  men,  either  as  moral  and  responsible  beings,  or  as  mem- 
bers of  society. 

In  all  these  classes  mental  phenomena  have  certain  relations 
to  each  other  and  to  external  things,  the  investigation  of  which 
is  the  object  of  particular  branches  of  science;  and  these  lead  to 
certain  arts  or  practical  rules  which  are  founded  upon  them. 


8  JOHN   ABERCROMBIE 

Intellectual  science  investigates  the  laws  and  relations  of  the 
processes  of  simple  intellect,  as  perception,  memory,  imagination, 
and  judgment;  and  the  proper  cultivation  and  regulation  of  these 
is  the  object  of  the  practical  art  of  intellectual  education. 

The  passive  emotions  may  be  influenced  or  excited  in  two 
ways;  namely,  through  our  relations  to  other  sentient  and  intel- 
ligent beings,  and  by  material  or  inanimate  things.  To  the  former 
head  are  referable  many  of  the  tenderest  and  most  interesting 
feelings  of  our  nature,  as  love,  hope,  joy,  and  sorrow.  To  the 
latter  belong  those  emotions  which  come  under  the  subject  of 
taste,  or  the  tendencies  of  certain  combinations  of  material  things 
to  excite  emotions  of  a  pleasurable  or  painful  kind,  —  as  our  im- 
pressions of  the  sublime,  the  beautiful,  the  terrible,  or  the  ludi- 
crous. The  practical  rules  or  processes  connected  with  the  science 
of  the  passive  emotions  arrange  themselves  into  two  classes,  cor- 
responding to  the  two  divisions  now  mentioned.  To  the  former 
belong  the  regulation  of  the  emotions,  and  all  those  rules  of  con- 
duct not  exactly  referable  to  the  higher  subject  of  morals,  which 
bear  an  extensive  influence  on  the  ties  of  friendship  —  and  the 
relations  of  social  and  domestic  intercourse.  To  the  latter  belong 
chiefly  those  processes  which  come  under  the  head  of  the  fine 
arts;  namely,  the  arts  of  the  painter,  the  sculptor,  the  architect, 
the  musician,  —  perhaps  we  may  add,  the  poet  and  the  dramatist. 

The  active  emotions,  or  those  which  influence  human  conduct, 
are  referable  to  two  classes;  namely,  those  which  affect  men  in- 
dividually as  moral  and  responsible  agents,  and  those  which  affect 
them  as  united  in  large  bodies  constituting  civil  society.  The 
cultivation  of  the  emotions  of  the  former  class,  and  the  investi- 
gation of  the  motives  and  principles  by  which  they  are  influenced, 
belong  to  the  high  subjects  of  morals  and  religion.  The  investi- 
gation and  control  of  emotions  of  the  latter  class  come  under  the 
science  of  politics;  and  the  practical  art,  founded  upon  it,  relates 
to  those  measures  by  which  the  statesman  attempts  to  control 
and  regulate  the  conduct  of  masses  of  mankind  united  as  mem- 
bers of  a  great  civil  community. 

In  medical  science  the  objects  of  our  researches  are  chiefly 
the  relations  between  external  things  and  the  living  powers  of 
animal  bodies, —  and  the  relations  of  these  powers  to  each  other; 
—  more  particularly  in  regard  to  the  tendencies  of  external  things 
to  produce  certain  changes  upon  living  bodies,  either  as  causes 
of  disease  or  as  remedies.     The  practical  art  founded  upon  this 


JOHN   ABERCROMBIE  9 

science  leads  to  the  consideration  of  the  means  by  which  we 
may  avail  ourselves  of  this  knowledge,  by  producing,  in  the  one 
case,  actions  upon  the  body  which  we  wish  to  produce,  and  in 
the  other,  by  counteracting  or  avoiding  actions  which  we  wish  to 
prevent. 

In  all  these  sciences,  and  the  practical  arts  which  are  founded 
upon  them,  the  general  principles  are  the  same;  namely,  a  care- 
ful observation  of  the  natural  and  uniform  relations  or  tendencies 
of  bodies  towards  each  other,  and  a  bringing  of  those  tenden- 
cies into  operation  for  the  production  of  results.  All  art,  there- 
fore, must  be  founded  upon  science,  or  a  correct  knowledge  of 
these  relations;  and  all  science  must  consist  of  such  a  careful 
observation  of  facts  in  regard  to  the  relations,  as  shall  enable 
us  confidently  to  pronounce  upon  those  which  are  fixed  and 
uniform.  He  who  follows  certain  arts  or  practical  rules,  without 
a  knowledge  of  the  science  on  which  they  are  founded,  is  the 
mere  artisan  or  the  empiric;  he  cannot  advance  beyond  the  pre- 
cise rules  which  are  given  him,  or  provide  for  new  occurrences 
and  unforeseen  difficulties.  In  regard  to  science,  again,  when  the 
relations  are  assumed  hastily,  or  without  a  sufficiently  extensive 
observation  of  facts,  the  process  constitutes  false  science,  or  false 
induction;  and  when  practical  rules  are  founded  upon  such  con- 
clusions, they  lead  to  error  and  disappointment  in  the  result 
expected. 

The  views  which  have  now  been  referred  to  lead  us  to  princi- 
ples by  which  the  sciences  are  distinguished  into  those  which  are 
certain  and  those  which  are,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  uncertain. 
The  certainty  of  a  science  depends  upon  the  facility  and  correct- 
ness with  which  we  ascertain  the  true  relations  of  things,  or  trace 
effects  to  their  true  causes,  and  causes  to  their  true  effects, —  and 
calculate  upon  the  actions  which  arise  out  of  these  relations  tak- 
ing place  with  perfect  uniformity.  This  certainty  we  easily  attain 
in  the  purely  physical  sciences,  or  those  in  which  we  have  to  deal 
only  with  inanimate  matter.  For  in  our  investigation  of  the  rela- 
tions of  material  bodies,  whether  mechanical  or  chemical,  we  con- 
trive experiments,  in  which  by  placing  the  bodies  in  a  variety  of 
circumstances  towards  each  other,  and  excluding  all  extraneous  in- 
fluence, we  come  to  determine  their  tendencies  with  perfect  cer- 
tainty. Having  done  so,  we  rely  with  confidence  on  these  tendencies 
continuing  to  be  uniform;  and  should  we  in  any  instance  be  dis- 
appointed of  the  result  which  we  wish   to  produce,  we  are  able 


IO  JOHN   ABERCROMBIE 

at  once  to  detect  the  nature  of  some  incidental  cause  by  which 
the  result  has  been  prevented,  and  to  obviate  the  effect  of  its 
interference.  The  consequence  of  this  accurate  knowledge  of 
their  relations  is,  that  we  acquire  a  power  over  material  things; 
but  this  power  is  entirely  limited  to  a  certain  control  and  direc- 
tion of  their  natural  relations;  and  we  cannot  change  these  rela- 
tions in  the  smallest  particular.  Our  power  is  of  course  also 
limited  to  those  objects  which  are  within  the  reach  of  our  imme- 
diate influence;  but  with  respect  to  those  which  are  beyond  this 
influence,  as  the  heavenly  bodies,  the  result  of  our  knowledge 
appears  in  a  manner  not  less  striking,  in  the  minute  accuracy 
with  which  we  are  enabled  to  foretell  their  movements,  even  at 
very  distant  periods.  I  need  only  mention  the  correctness  with 
which  the  astronomer  calculates  eclipses  and  the  appearance  of 
comets. 

With  these  characters  of  certainty  in  the  purely  physical  sci- 
ences, two  sources  of  uncertainty  are  contrasted  in  those  branches 
of  science  in  which  we  have  to  deal  with  mental  operations,  or 
with  the  powers  of  living  bodies.  The  first  of  these  depends 
upon  the  circumstance,  that,  in  investigating  the  relations  and 
tendencies  in  these  cases,  we  are  generally  obliged  to  trust  to 
observation  alone,  as  the  phenomena  happen  to  be  presented  to 
us,  and  cannot  confirm  or  correct  these  observations  by  direct 
experiment.  And  as  the  actual  connections  in  which  the  phe- 
nomena occur  to  us  are  often  very  different  from  their  true  rela- 
tions, it  is  in  many  cases  extremely  difficult  to  ascertain  the 
true  relations,  that  is,  to  refer  effects  to  their  true  causes  and 
to  trace  causes  to  their  true  effects.  Hence  just  conclusions  are 
arrived  at  slowly,  and  after  a  long  course  of  occasional  observa- 
tions; and  we  may  be  obliged  to  go  on  for  a  long  time  without 
acquiring  any  conclusions  which  we  feel  to  be  worthy  of  confi- 
dence. In  these  sciences,  therefore,  there  is  great  temptation  to 
grasp  at  premature  inductions;  and  when  such  have  been  brought 
forward  with  confidence,  there  is  often  difficulty  in  exposing  their 
fallacy;  for  in  such  a  case  it  may  happen  that  as  long  a  course 
of  observation  is  required  for  exposing  the  false  conclusion  as  for 
ascertaining  the  true.  In  physical  science,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
single  experiment  may  often  overturn  the  most  plausible  hypoth- 
esis,  or  may  establish  one  which  was  proposed  in  conjecture. 

The  second  source  of  uncertainty  in  this  class  of  sciences 
consists    in    the    fact    that,  even    after    we    have    ascertained    the 


JOHN   ABERCROMBIE  II 

true  relations  of  things,  we  may  be  disappointed  of  the  results 
which  we  wish  to  produce,  when  we  bring  their  tendencies  into 
operation.  This  arises  from  the  interposition  of  other  causes,  by 
which  the  true  tendencies  are  modified  or  counteracted,  and  the 
operation  of  which  we  are  not  able  either  to  calculate  upon  or 
to  control.  The  new  causes,  which  operate  in  this  manner,  are 
chiefly  certain  powers  in  living  animal  bodies,  and  the  wills,  feel- 
ings, and  propensities  of  masses  of  human  beings,  which  we 
have  not  the  means  of  reducing  to  any  fixed  or  uniform  laws. 
As  examples  of  the  uncertain  sciences,  therefore,  we  may  men- 
tion medicine  and  political  economy;  and  their  uncertainty  is  ref- 
erable to  the  same  sources,  namely,  the  difficulty  of  ascertaining 
the  true  relations  of  things,  or  of  tracing  effects  to  their  true 
causes,  and  causes  to  their  true  effects;  —  and  the  intervention  of 
new  causes  which  elude  our  observation,  while  they  interfere  with 
the  natural  tendencies  of  things,  and  defeat  our  attempts  to  pro- 
duce certain  results  by  bringing  these  into  action.  The  scientific 
physician  well  knows  the  difficulty  of  ascertaining  the  true  rela- 
tions of  those  things  which  are  the  proper  objects  of  his  atten- 
tion, and  the  uncertainty  which  attends  all  his  efforts  to  produce 
particular  results.  A  person,  for  example,  affected  with  a  dis- 
ease recovers  under  the  use  of  a  particular  remedy;  a  second 
is  affected  with  the  same  disease,  and  uses  this  remedy  without 
any  benefit;  while  a  third  recovers  under  a  very  different  remedy, 
or  without  any  treatment  at  all.  And  even  in  those  cases  in 
which  he  has  distinctly  ascertained  true  relations,  new  causes  in- 
tervene and  disappoint  his  endeavors  to  produce  results  by  means 
of  these  relations.  He  knows,  for  example,  a  disease  which 
would  certainly  be  relieved  by  the  full  operation  of  diuretics, 
and  he  knows  various  substances  which  have  unquestionably  diu- 
retic virtues.  But  in  a  particular  instance  he  may  fail  entirely 
in  relieving  the  disease  by  the  most  assiduous  use  of  these 
remedies,  for  the  real  and  true  tendencies  of  these  bodies  are 
interrupted  by  certain  other  causes  in  the  constitution  itself, 
which  entirely  elude  his  observation  and  are  in  no  degree  under 
his  control. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  point  out  the  similarity  of  these  facts  to 
the  uncertainty  experienced  by  the  statesman  in  his  attempts  to 
influence  the  interests,  the  propensities,  and  the  actions  of  masses 
of  mankind;  or  to  show  how  often  measures  which  have  been 
planned   with   every    effort   of  human  wisdom   fail  of  the  results 


12  JOHN    ABERCROMBIE 

which  they  were  intended  to  produce,  or  are  followed  by  conse- 
quences remarkably  different.  Nothing  indeed  can  show  in  a 
more  striking-  manner  the  uncertainty  which  attaches  to  this  sci- 
ence than  the  different  aspects  in  which  the  same  measure  is 
often  viewed  by  different  men  distinguished  for  political  wisdom 
and  talent.  I  abstain  from  alluding  to  particular  examples,  but 
those  accustomed  to  attend  to  public  affairs  will  find  little  diffi- 
culty in  fixing  upon  remarkable  instances  in  which  measures 
have  been  recommended  by  wise  and  able  men,  as  calculated  to 
lead  to  important  benefits,  while  others  of  no  inferior  name  for 
talent  and  wisdom  have,  with  equal  confidence,  predicted  from 
them  consequences  altogether  different.  Such  are  the  difficulties 
of  tracing  effects  to  their  true  causes,  and  causes  to  their  true 
effects,  when  we  have  to  deal,  not  with  material  substances  sim- 
ply, but  with  the  powers  of  living  bodies,  or  with  the  wills,  the 
interests,  and  the  propensities  of  human  beings. 

One  other  reflection  arises  out  of  the  view  which  has  been 
given  of  this  important  subject.  The  object  of  all  science, 
whether  it  refer  to  matter  or  to  mind,  is  simply  to  ascertain 
facts  and  to  trace  their  relations  to  each  other.  The  powers 
which  regulate  these  relations  are  entirely  hidden  from  us  in  our 
present  imperfect  state  of  being;  and  by  grasping  at  principles 
which  are  beyond  our  reach,  we  leave  that  path  of  inquiry  which 
alone  is  adapted  to  our  limited  faculties,  and  involve  ourselves 
in  error,  perplexity,  and  darkness.  It  is  humbling  to  the  pride 
of  human  reason,  but  it  is  not  the  less  true,  that  the  highest  ac- 
quirement ever  made  by  the  most  exalted  genius  of  man  has 
been  only  to  trace  a  part,  and  a  very  small  part,  of  that  order 
which  the  Deity  has  established  in  his  works.  When  we  en- 
deavor to  pry  into  the  causes  of  this  order,  we  perceive  the 
operation  of  powers  which  lie  far  beyond  the  reach  of  our  lim- 
ited faculties.  They  who  have  made  the  highest  advances  in 
true  science  will  be  the  first  to  confess  how  limited  these  facul- 
ties are  and  how  small  a  part  we  can  comprehend  of  the  ways 
of  the  Almighty  Creator.  They  will  be  the  first  to  acknowledge 
that  the  highest  acquirement  of  human  wisdom  is  to  advance  to 
that  line  which  is  its  legitimate  boundary,  and  there,  contemplat- 
ing the  wondrous  field  which  lies  beyond  it,  to  bend  in  humble 
adoration  before  a  wisdom  which  it  cannot  fathom  and  a  power 
which  it  cannot  comprehend. 

Complete.     From  the  essays  on  the  (<  Intellectual  Powers.* 


i3 


MADAME   ADAM 

(Madame  Edmond  Adam,  nee  Juliette  Lamber) 

(i 836-) 

|s  the  founder  of  the  Nouvelle  Revue  and  an  essayist  on 
moral,  political,  and  social  topics,  Madame  Adam  is  perhaps 
the  best  representative  France  has  given  the  world  of  the 
« New  Woman. w  Since  the  death  of  her  second  husband  in  1877,  she 
has  devoted  a  large  share  of  her  attention  to  politics,  and  her  salon 
has  been  a  rendezvous  for  the  more  advanced  Republicans  of  Paris. 
She  was  born  at  Verberie,  October  4th,  1836,  and,  by  a  number  of 
works  published  under  her  maiden  name  of  Juliette  Lamber,  gave 
promise  of  the  masculine  quality  of  intellect  which  appears  in  her 
later  writings.  Her  first  husband,  M.  La  Messine,  dying  in  the  early 
years  of  their  married  life,  she  married  a  second  husband,  M.  Ed- 
mond Adam,  prefect  of  police  in  Paris,  whom  also  she  survives. 
Among  her  works  are  a  (<Life  of  Garibaldi, M  <(  Studies  of  Contempo- 
raneous Greek  Poets, w  and  a  considerable  number  of  essays  and  social 
studies,  some  of  which  were  published  in  the  Nouvelle  Revue  in  a 
series  said  to  be  by  various  hands,  but  having  the  common  signa- 
ture, «Paul  Vasili." 

Intellectually,  Madame  Adam  is  a  product  of  the  same  moral  forces 
which  produced  Baudelaire  in  France  and  Swinburne  in  England. 
She  stands  for  the  belief,  peculiarly  characteristic  of  the  last  quarter 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  that  the  old  standards,  whether  Greek, 
Gothic,  Hebrew,  or  Christian,  have  been  superseded  by  the  moral 
laws  and  artistic  canons  of  a  new  cycle.  The  reaction  towards  the 
Scott  school  of  Romantic  fiction  during  the  last  five  years  seems  to 
have  distracted  the  public  mind  from  problems  with  which  Madame 
Adam  and  her  generation  were  so  largely  concerned. 


WOMAN  IN  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Surely  at  no  other   period  have  women   had   the   same   incen- 
tives as  at  present  to  reflect  upon  their  position,  their  rights, 
and  their  duties,  as  wives  and  mothers  in  our  modern  world. 
The   various  formulas,  customs,  institutions,  prejudices,  which    for 
centuries   have    hemmed    them   in    are    by   degrees    being    either 


14  MADAME    ADAM 

more  liberally  interpreted  or  being  done  away  with  altogether. 
The  more  and  more  expansive  character  imparted  to  modern  life 
by  the  effects  of  material  progress,  the  greater  facilities  of  inter- 
communication, and  the  ever-increasing  degree  of  social  independ- 
ence gained  by  man  has,  among  other  causes,  affected  woman's 
position  in  this  much,  that  she  is  now  almost  entirely  freed  from 
the  bonds  which  once  held  her  captive,  a  slave  to  the  conjugal 
hearth.     The  era  of  woman's  emancipation  has  commenced. 

Yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  march  of  woman  toward  a 
larger  and  more  legitimate  social  development  has  been  far 
slower  and  more  embarrassed  than  man's  during  an  equal  lapse 
of  time.  Man  to  a  great  extent  has  triumphed  over  the  long  op- 
pression of  caste,  and,  in  his  turn,  has  ceased  to  oppress  woman  so 
heavily  as  before;  but  he  has  never  taken  any  steps  to  associate 
her  with  himself  in  his  demands  for  the  recognition  of  his  rights. 
And  woman,  in  the  timidity  and  uncertainty  born  of  ages  of  sub- 
jection, does  not  dare  to  press  her  just  claims  for  herself.  The 
door  of  her  cage  is  open,  but  she  is  still  held  in  awe  by  the  bars. 

The  health,  happiness,  and  beneficent  action  of  any  and  every 
organism  are  in  direct  ratio  to  its  state  of  conformity  with  the 
natural  laws  of  its  being,  and,  consequently,  with  the  general  law 
of  all.  Now  the  modern  woman  approaches  by  no  means  so 
closely  to  this  condition  of  natural  conformity  as  does  the  mod- 
ern man,  whether  it  be  that,  as  in  certain  countries,  like  the 
United  States,  she  tends  to  become  man's  social  and  intellectual 
superior,  or  whether,  as  in  France  for  example,  she  acts  as  a 
drag  upon  the  wheel  of  progress.  In  France  woman  uncon- 
sciously revenges  herself  for  not  having  been  suffered  to  partici- 
pate in  the  benefits  of  the  Revolution  by  exerting  a  retrograde, 
ultraconservative  influence,  which  at  the  present  day  works  as  a 
perturbing  element  in  French   society. 

It  is  a  fact  now  generally  recognized  that  all  things  on  earth 
follow  a  natural  progression  on  the  lines  of  utilization  of  force, 
co-ordination  of  faculties,  and  development  of  productiveness. 
The  very  history  of  our  globe,  whose  final  destination  was  to  be- 
come the  habitat  of  man,  gives  evidence  of  the  prolonged  phases 
of  perturbation  through  which  things  must  pass  on  the  way  to 
their  appointed  goal.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  more  a  sphere, 
a  society,  a  caste,  a  sex  begins  to  approximate  to  its  true  reason 
of  being,  its  normal  motives  of  activity,  the  more  of  power,  of 
virtue    of  stability  will  it  acquire.      If,  then,  the  natural,  moral, 


MADAME    ADAM  1 5 

and  social  conditions  regulating  the  existence  of  individuals  were 
more  thoroughly  understood,  and  more  strictly  observed,  it  would 
soon  be  perceived  that  all  oppressors  are  themselves  oppressed 
through  the  effects  of  that  very  despotism  they  exert,  and  that 
abuses  always  recoil  upon  their  authors.  In  all  cases,  under  all 
circumstances,  the  final  interests  of  the  minority  will  be  found  to 
correspond  with  those  of  the  greatest  number.  The  effort  made 
by  social  groups  and  by  separate  individuals  to  possess  them- 
selves of  what  they  feel  to  be  their  rights  becomes  excessive  in 
exact  proportion  to  the  resistance  of  those  who  deny  the  rights 
in  question.  Injustice  breeds  injustice.  Thus  woman,  whose  mis- 
sion in  society  and  in  the  family  circle  is  one  of  beneficence, 
becomes  a  maleficent  influence  in  direct  consequence  of  the  abase- 
ment to  which  she  has  hitherto  been  subjected. 

In  ancient  life  we  see  Aspasia  and  the  other  Greek  courtesans 
seizing  upon  the  social  influence  which  was  denied  to  Grecian 
wives  and  mothers;  and  yet  a  Greek  wife,  by  eloping  with  the 
seducer  Paris,  had  already  shown  that  the  triple  portals  of  the 
gynaeceum  could  not  confine  a  woman  against  her  will.  And, 
strangely  enough,  all  Greece  was  drawn  into  a  war  which  im- 
periled its  very  existence  through  the  action  of  her  who  had 
rebelled,  however  wantonly,  against  the  oppressive  restrictions 
then  imposed  upon  members  of  her  sex. 

Rome  was  contented,  austere,  temperate  in  her  ambition,  and 
ignorant  of  defeat  just  so  long  as  the  matron's  rights  were  re- 
spected and  her  position  secure.  But  from  the  day  when  the 
Republic,  with  all  its  virtues,  disappears  under  the  Caesars,  woman 
is  only  regarded  as  a  plaything.  Corruption  stalks  abroad,  and 
the  empire  totters  to  its  fall. 

Under  the  feudal  system  woman  is  pent  up  in  the  manor 
house,  chivalry  is  born,  and  the  feudal  knights  scour  the  country 
in  search  of  ideal  love.  The  wife  is  regarded  as  a  chattel,  while 
that  ideal  entity,  the  ladye-love,  is  placed  on  a  pedestal. 

Warlike  peoples  are  prosperous  so  long  as  their  women  are 
brave,  fond  of  war,  and  lead  the  life  of  the  camp.  But  the  na- 
tions which  immure  their  women  in  harems  lose  in  those  very 
harems  the  last  vestiges  of  manly  virtue;  and  the  greatest  Ori- 
ental empires  have  sunk  into  decrepitude  through  the  effects  of 
intrigues  set  on  foot  by  female  slaves.  When  woman  is  not  per- 
mitted to  exercise  her  organizing  powers,  she  becomes  a  disor- 
ganizing influence. 


l6  MADAME    ADAM 

If,  however,  woman  attempt  to  transcend  her  legitimate  sphere 
of  action  by  breaking  away  from  her  natural  limitations,  the  re- 
sult can  only  be  to  subject  her  to  new  conditions  of  social  infe- 
riority. In  any  society  or  among  any  people  where  woman  is 
despised  by  man,  he  himself  becomes  despicable  through  his 
sharing  in  the  degradation  and  corruption  to  which  he  has  con- 
demned her.  We  have  seen  how  the  slave  of  the  harem  in  her 
turn  enslaves  the  enslaver.  In  more  advanced  societies,  such  as 
that  of  France  during  the  eighteenth  century,  if  man  relegates 
woman  to  the  sphere  of  gallantry  and  frivolity  alone,  the  nation 
itself  becomes  merely  gallant  and  frivolous.  But  should  man,  on 
the  other  hand,  concede  to  woman  an  unduly  wide  influence  in 
society,  should  he  place  himself  in  such  a  position  of  inferiority 
as  to  be  no  longer  anything  but  an  instrument  to  her  luxurious 
tastes,  she  will  drift  away  from  him  in  disdain,  will  form  a  priv- 
ileged class,  an  aristocracy,  and  thus  wealth  comes  to  assume  a 
factitious  importance,  imperiling  the  moral  conditions  of  society 
and  relaxing  the  former  closeness  of  the  family  tie. 

Danger  in  these  respects  must  still  exist,  even  now  that  woman 
is  no  longer  entirely  a  minor,  whenever  man  declines  to  recog- 
nize her  independence,  refuses  to  treat  her  as  a  partner  and 
companion,  and  to  grant  her,  at  least  in  the  home,  rights  not 
identical  with  his,  which  she  could  exercise  to  no  good  effect, 
but  rights  equivalent  in  all  the  fields  of  her  activity,  rights  pro- 
portioned to  her  powers,  and  bringing  with  them  their  meed  of 
legitimate  responsibility  and  control. 

At  the  present  day  more  than  ever  before,  it  has  become  a  mat- 
ter of  necessity  that  the  activity,  the  faculties,  the  influence,  the 
powers  of  woman  should  be  brought  to  bear  upon  the  proper  ad- 
justment of  the  social  equilibrium.  The  laws  regulating  the  world, 
with  its  human  life  and  societies,  plainly  indicate  that  any  force 
must  be  allowed  its  natural  expansion,  or  else  it  will  work  the 
gravest  disturbance.  Woman  nowadays  is  a  force,  and  as  a  force 
must  find  her  suitable  employ.  Her  full  and  due  share  must  be 
allowed  her  in  social  action  and  social  rights,  duties,  and  benefits. 
She  can  no  more  be  indefinitely  withheld  from  her  public  duties 
than  she  is  exempted  from  taxation.  The  longer  the  delay  in 
according  woman  her  rights,  the  more  disastrously  will  she  make 
felt  the  influence  of  her  defects. 

—  From  an  essay  in  the  Fortnightly  Review  1892. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

After  a  Portrait  by  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller. 


IR  Godfrey  Kneller,  painter  of  this  portrait  of  Addison,  was  the 
rival  of  Sir  Peter  Lely  for  the  first  place  among  English  portrait 
painters  in  his  generation.  He  was  born  at  Lubeck  1646,  but  set- 
tled in  England  in  1675,  where  he  soon  came  into  high  favor  at  court.  He 
kept  his  place  under  Charles  II.,  James  II.,  William  III.,  and  Queen  Anne. 
He  was  knighted  in  1691.  So  great  was  his  reputation,  that  he  painted  the 
portraits  of  ten  sovereigns  reigning  during  his  lifetime. 


i7 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 

(1672-1719) 

Iaine  says  of  Addison  that  (<  after  listening  to  him  for  a  little, 
people  feel  themselves  better,  for  they  recognize  in  him 
from  the  first  a  singularly  lofty  soul,  very  pure  and  so 
much  attached  to  uprightness  that  he  made  it  his  constant  care  and 
dearest  pleasure. ®  Perhaps  no  other  sentence  has  been  written  which 
has  in  it  so  much  of  the  secret  of  Addison's  greatness,  but  Taine 
quotes  from  Addison  himself  one  which  suggests  scarcely  less: 
(<  There  is  no  society  or  conversation  to  be  kept  up  in  the  world 
without  good  nature  or  something  which  must  bear  its  appearance 
and  supply  its  place.  .  .  .  The  greatest  wits  I  have  conversed 
with  were  men  eminent  for  their  humanity. ®  This  gift  of  good  nature 
which  Addison  had  observed  in  <(  the  greatest  wits  *  is  the  reward 
(<  lofty  souls,  very  pure  and  simple,®  receive  for  the  attachment  to 
uprightness  through  which  it  becomes  their  (<  constant  care  and  dear- 
est pleasure. ®  It  is  in  itself  at  once  the  greatest  reward  genius  can 
receive,  and  the  mode  through  which  it  operates  to  express  that 
fellow-feeling  for  humanity  which  is  its  own  essence. 

Everywhere  in  Addison's  essays  we  see  this  good  nature  operating 
as  the  source  of  their  inspiration  and  the  secret  of  their  expression. 
It  is  not  mere  good  humor,  though  good  humor  is  a  part  of  it,  but 
good  nature  itself  —  the  quality  of  mind  and  soul  which  <(is  not 
puffed  up,®  <(doth  not  behave  itself  unseemly,®  <(is  not  easily  pro- 
voked,® w  thinketh  no  evil.®  If  we  wish  to  know  what  this  means 
not  merely  in  spirit,  but  in  its  effects  on  style,  we  have  only  to  com- 
pare one  of  Addison's  essays  with  one  of  the  critical  essays  which 
characterize  several  well-known  English  reviews  at  the  close  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  We  will  see  then  that  Addison  has  grace  while 
they  have  (< gnosis®  —  that  untranslatable  something  which,  according 
to  Saint  Paul,  (<  puffeth  up®  —  which  we  translate  <(  knowledge,®  though 
it  has  its  foundations  deep-laid  in  the  pride  of  contemptuous  superi- 
ority rather  than  in  such  pleasant  pedantry  as  that  of  the  Spectator 
in  the  days  of  Queen  Anne  when  Horace  still  went  trippingly  on 
the  tongues  of  those  who  made  no  great  pretensions  to  learning. 

A  recent  critic  has  made  a  considerable  collection  of  examples  of 
what  he  considers  false  syntax  from  the  Spectator;  another  has 
been  at  pains  to  prove  that  Addison's  reading  of  the  classics  did  not 
1 — 2 


18  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

extend  beyond  the  poets  and  that  he  had  no  considerable  depth  of 
learning,  —  all  of  which  Addison  had  long  ago  answered  conclusively 
in  saying :  <(  The  greatest  wits  I  have  conversed  with  were  men  eminent 
for  their  humanity. »  He  meant  simply  what  he  had  implied  in  the 
preceding  sentence,  that  they  were  eminently  good-natured  men.  They 
had  grace  as  he  had;  as  the  intellectually  great  Swift  did  not  and 
could  not  have;  as  the  closing  decade  of  the  nineteenth  century  has 
not  had  in  its  attempts  at  (<  higher  criticism w  of  everything  most  true 
and  hence  most  subtly  ethereal  in  the  realm  both  of  the  natural  and 
the  supernatural. 

If  it  were  fully  admitted  that  Addison's  syntax  was  sometimes 
slovenly, — if  it  were  undeniable  that  he  knew  nothing  of  comparative 
philology,  of  biology,  of  sociology  and  political  economy,  he  would  re- 
main, nevertheless,  a  model  for  the  English  writers  of  all  times,  and 
more  especially  of  this  our  own  critical  time,  because  of  the  quality  of 
gracious  and  truthful  good  nature  which  permeates  all  he  writes.  (<A 
mere  literary  education, w  writes  Taine,  <(only  makes  good  talkers,  able 
to  adorn  and  publish  ideas  which  they  do  not  possess  —  which  others 
furnish  for  them.  If  writers  wish  to  invent,  they  must  look  to  events 
and  men,  not  to  books  and  drawing-rooms.  The  conversation  of  men 
is  more  useful  to  them  than  the  study  of  perfect  periods.  They  can- 
not think  for  themselves  but  in  so  far  as  they  have  lived  or  acted. 
Addison  knew  how  to  act  and  live.* 

If  we  examine  his  life  to  find  what  this  means,  we  find  that  he 
knew  how  to  act  and  live  in  sympathy  with  others,  that  he  was  not 
shut  off  from  them  by  that  insolence  of  mind  which  is  the  result  of 
recent  or  of  unused  intellectual  acquisition.  All  literature  that  is 
either  good  or  great  must  express  what  is  best  and  most  worthy  of 
expression  in  common  humanity;  and  no  one  can  acquire  it  except 
by  the  sympathy  which,  as  a  habit  of  mind,  enables  him  without  con- 
scious effort  and  with  conscious  pleasure  to  put  himself  in  the  place 
of  men  of  every  class  and  every  type,  living  their  lives  in  his  imag- 
ination, occupying  through  sympathy  with  them  their  usual  stand- 
points of  observation,  and  reaching  easily  and  naturally  their  customary 
conclusions.  When  men  who  have  (<  gnosis  w  rather  than  grace  attempt 
this,  they  patronize  us  so  insufferably  that  we  want  none  of  their  sym- 
pathy and  as  little  as  possible  of  their  acquaintance.  But  the  great 
poets,  the  great  essayists,  the  great  novelists  who  give  a  high  and 
truthful  expression  to  what  we  have  expressed  only  clumsily  and  in- 
adequately,—  they  are  our  friends,  our  benefactors  through  whose 
grace  we  realize  our  own  highest  possibilities  as  we  could  not  other- 
wise. They  do  not  preach  to  us.  They  converse  with  us  as  Addison 
always  does  in  the  easiest  and  most  natural  way,  developing  our 
thought  as  it  rises  in  our  minds  before  we  ourselves  can  express  it. 
This  is  the  highest  gift  a  writer  can  have,  and  it  characterizes  Addison 


JOSEPH    ADDISON  19 

more   than    any   other   writer  of    English   essays  —  with   the    single   ex- 
ception of  Bacon,  who  belongs  to  a  wholly  different  school. 

Addison  was  born  May  1st,  1672,  in  Wiltshire,  where  his  father 
Lancelot  Addison  was  dean  of  Litchfield.  At  Oxford  where  he  gradu- 
ated with  honors,  he  showed  the  taste  for  classical  verse  which  char- 
acterized him  all  his  life  and  contributed  no  doubt  to  give  his  style 
the  easy  elegance  in  which  it  approximates  the  highest  productions 
of  classical  antiquity.  In  his  politics  he  was  a  Whig;  and  after  hold- 
ing various  positions  under  Whig  administrations,  he  became,  under 
George  I.,  one  of  the  principal  Secretaries  of  State, —  a  position  from 
which  he  retired  after  eleven  months  with  a  pension  of  ,£1,500  a  year. 
His  work  as  a  politician  and  as  a  poet  need  be  touched  on  in  this 
connection  only  as  it  is  connected  with  the  great  work  of  his  life, — 
the  essays  which  created  what  is  likely  always  to  remain  a  distinct 
school  of  English  prose  in  strong  contrast,  both  of  motive  and  method, 
with  the  academic  style  of  prose  Latin  and  its  imitations  in  Cice- 
ronian English.  The  Spectator,  in  which  Addison's  best  work  appeared, 
issued  its  first  number  on  March  1st,  171 1,  succeeding  the  Tatler  to 
which  Addison  was  also  a  contributor.  When  the  Spectator  ceased 
to  appear,  Steele  founded  the  Guardian  to  which  Addison  con- 
tributed fifty-three  essays  on  much  the  same  range  of  topics  as  char- 
acterized the  Spectator.  The  superior  popularity  of  the  Spectator  is 
largely  due  to  Steele's  invention  of  the  Spectator  club  and  the  char- 
acter of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  which  was  developed,  chiefly  by  Addi- 
son, with  an  ease  and  naturalness  not  attained  in  the  character 
studies  of  any  other  essays  of  the  time.  The  Coverley  papers  are 
rightly  a  favorite  with  his  readers  because  of  their  fine  and  free 
humor  and  the  loving  care  with  which  they  depict  the  virtuous  sim- 
plicity of  the  good  nature  Addison  so  valued.  They  are  perhaps  his 
masterpieces,  but,  in  contrast  with  the  interminable  prolixity  of  the 
later  critical  review,  even  the  most  careless  of  his  essays  is  a  model 
of  expression.  Of  his  pedantry,  his  love  of  snatches  of  classical  verse 
which  in  later  times  may  seem  to  deform  the  page  with  a  display  of 
outlandish  learning,  it  must  be  remembered  that  in  the  time  of  Queen 
Anne  there  may  have  still  existed  those  to  whom  such  quotations 
from  the  <(  dead  languages w  stood  for  strains  of  living  melody,  rarer 
than  we  can  imagine  from  our  own  verse  and  full  of  the  same  magic 
of  expression  which  compels  the  eye  in  the  Apollo  Belvedere  and  the 
Venus  of  Milo.  If  such  a  one  then  survived  from  the  time  when  the 
realities  of  the  classics  were  still  something  more  than  a  scholastic 
tradition,  Addison  might  well  have  been  that  one.  If  such  a  one 
come  again,  he  may  find  the  simple  grace  of  Addison's  prose  in  har- 
mony with  the  subtlest  secrets  of  form  in  the  great  works  of  those 
mastersingers  of  antiquity  whom  he  studied  with  admiration  so  lov- 
ing that  we  have  no   right  to   call   it  pedantry.  W.  V.  B. 


20  JOSEPH    ADDISON 


THE   SPECTATOR   INTRODUCES   HIMSELF 

Non  fumum  ex  fulgore,  sed  ex  fumo  dare  lucent 
Cogitat,  ut  speciosa  dehinc  miracula  promat. 

—  Hor.  Ars  Poet.  ver.  143 

One  with  a  flash  begins,  and  ends  in  smoke; 
Another  out  of  smoke  brings  glorious  light 
And   (without  raising  expectation  high) 
Surprises  us  with  dazzling  miracles. 

— Roscommon. 

I  have  observed  that  a  reader  seldom  peruses  a  book  with  pleas- 
ure till    he   know   whether    the   writer  of   it   be   a   black   or  a 

fair  man,  of  a  mild  or  choleric  disposition,  married  or  a 
bachelor,  with  other  particulars  of  the  like  nature,  that  conduce 
very  much  to  the  right  understanding  of  an  author.  To  gratify 
this  curiosity,  which  is  so  natural  to  a  reader,  I  design  this 
paper  and  my  next  as  prefatory  discourses  to  my  following  writ- 
ings, and  shall  give  some  account  in  them  of  the  several  persons 
that  are  engaged  in  this  work.  As  the  chief  trouble  of  compil- 
ing, digesting,  and  correcting,  will  fall  to  my  share,  I  must  do 
myself  the  justice  to  open  the  work  with  my  own  history. 

I  was  born  to  a  small  hereditary  estate,  which,  according  to 
the  tradition  of  the  village  where  it  lies,  was  bounded  by  the 
same  hedges  and  ditches  in  William  the  Conqueror's  time  that  it 
is  at  present,  and  has  been  delivered  down  from  father  to  son 
whole  and  entire,  without  the  loss  or  acquisition  of  a  single  field 
or  meadow,  during  the  space  of  six  hundred  years.  There  runs 
a  story  in  the  family,  that  before  I  was  born  my  mother  dreamt 
that  she  was  to  bring  forth  a  judge;  whether  this  might  proceed 
from  a  lawsuit  which  was  then  depending  in  the  family,  or  my 
father's  being  a  justice  of  the  peace,  I  cannot  determine;  for  I 
am  not  so  vain  as  to  think  it  presaged  any  dignity  that  I  should 
arrive  at  in  my  future  life,  though  that  was  the  interpretation 
which  the  neighborhood  put  upon  it.  The  gravity  of  my  be- 
havior at  my  very  first  appearance  in  the  world  seemed  to  favor 
my  mother's  dream:  for,  as  she  has  often  told  me,  I  threw  away 
my  rattle  before  I  was  two  months  old,  and  would  not  make  use 
of  my  coral  till  they  had  taken  away  the  bells  from  it. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  infancy,  there  being  nothing  in  it  re- 
markable, I  shall  pass  it  over  in  silence.  I  find,  that,  during  my 
nonage,   I    had   the   reputation    of   a   very    sullen   youth,    but   was 


JOSEPH    ADDISON  2  1 

always  a  favorite  of  my  schoolmaster,  who  used  to  say  that  my 
parts  were  solid  and  would  wear  well.  I  had  not  been  long  at 
the  University,  before  I  distinguished  myself  by  a  most  profound 
silence;  for,  during  the  space  of  eight  years,  excepting  in  the 
public  exercises  of  the  college,  I  scarce  uttered  the  quantity  of 
an  hundred  words;  and  indeed  do  not  remember  that  I  ever 
spoke  three  sentences  together  in  my  whole  life.  Whilst  I  was 
in  this  learned  body,  I  applied  myself  with  so  much  diligence  to 
my  studies,  that  there  are  very  few  celebrated  books,  either  in 
the  learned  or  modern  tongues,  which  I  am  not  acquainted  with. 

Upon  the  death  of  my  father,  I  was  resolved  to  travel  into 
foreign  countries,  and  therefore  left  the  University  with  the  char- 
acter of  an  odd  unaccountable  fellow,  that  had  a  great  deal  of 
learning,  if  I  would  but  show  it.  An  insatiable  thirst  after 
knowledge  carried  me  into  all  the  countries  of  Europe  in  which 
there  was  anything  new  or  strange  to  be  seen;  nay,  to  such  a 
degree  was  my  curiosity  raised,  that  having  read  the  controver- 
sies of  some  great  men  concerning  the  antiquities  of  Egypt,  I 
made  a  voyage  to  Grand  Cairo,  on  purpose  to  take  the  measure 
of  a  pyramid:  and,  as  soon  as  I  had  set  myself  right  in  that 
particular,  returned  to  my  native  country  with  great  satisfaction. 

I  have  passed  my  latter  years  in  this  city,  where  I  am  fre- 
quently seen  in  most  public  places,  though  there  are  not  above 
half  a  dozen  of  my  select  friends  that  know  me:  of  whom  my 
next  paper  shall  give  a  more  particular  account.  There  is  no 
place  of  general  resort  wherein  I  do  not  often  make  my  appear- 
ance; sometimes  I  am  seen  thrusting  my  head  into  a  round  of 
politicians  at  Will's,  and  listening  with  great  attention  to  the 
narratives  that  are  made  in  those  little  circular  audiences.  Some- 
times I  smoke  a  pipe  at  Child's,  and,  while  I  seem  attentive  to 
nothing  but  the  Postman,  overhear  the  conversation  of  every 
table  in  the  room.  I  appear  on  Sunday  nights  at  St.  James's 
coffeehouse,  and  sometimes  join  the  little  committee  of  politics 
in  the  inner  room,  as  one  who  comes  there  to  hear  and  improve. 
My  face  is  likewise  very  well  known  at  the  Grecian,  the  Cocoa 
Tree,  and  in  the  theatres  both  of  Drury  Lane  and  the  Hay 
Market.  I  have  been  taken  for  a  merchant  upon  the  Exchange 
for  above  these  ten  years,  and  sometimes  pass  for  a  Jew  in  the 
assembly  of  stockjobbers  at  Jonathan's.  In  short,  wherever  I  see 
a  cluster  of  people,  I  always  mix  with  them,  though  I  never  open 
my  lips  but  in  my  own  club. 


22  JOSEPH    ADDISON 

Thus  I  live  in  the  world  rather  as  a  spectator  of  mankind 
than  as  one  of  the  species;  by  which  means  I  have  made  myself 
a  speculative  statesman,  soldier,  merchant,  and  artisan,  without 
ever  meddling  with  any  practical  part  in  life.  I  am  very  well 
versed  in  the  theory  of  a  husband  or  a  father,  and  can  discern 
the  errors  in  the  economy,  business,  and  diversion  of  others,  bet- 
ter than  those  who  are  engaged  in  them:  as  standers-by  discover 
blots,  which  are  apt  to  escape  those  who  are  in  the  game.  I 
never  espoused  any  party  with  violence,  and  am  resolved  to  ob- 
serve an  exact  neutrality  between  the  Whigs  and  Tories,  unless 
I  shall  be  forced  to  declare  myself  by  the  hostilities  of  either 
side.  In  short,  I  have  acted  in  all  the  parts  of  my  life  as  a 
looker-on,  which  is  the  character  I  intend  to  preserve  in  this 
paper. 

I  have  given  the  reader  just  so  much  of  my  history  and  char- 
acter, as  to  let  him  see  I  am  not  altogether  unqualified  for 
the  business  I  have  undertaken.  As  for  other  particulars  in  my 
life  and  adventures,  I  shall  insert  them  in  following  papers,  as  I 
shall  see  occasion.  In  the  meantime,  when  I  consider  how  much 
I  have  seen,  read,  and  heard,  I  begin  to  blame  my  own  taciturn- 
ity; and  since  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  communi- 
cate the  fullness  of  my  heart  in  speech,  I  am  resolved  to  do  it  in 
writing,  and  to  print  myself  out,  if  possible,  before  I  die.  I  have 
been  often  told  by  my  friends,  that  it  is  a  pity  so  many  useful 
discoveries  which  I  have  made  should  be  in  the  possession  of  a 
silent  man.  For  this  reason,  therefore,  I  shall  publish  a  sheet 
full  of  thoughts  every  morning  for  the  benefit  of  my  contempo- 
raries; and  if  I  can  in  any  way  contribute  to  the  diversion  or  im- 
provement of  the  country  in  which  I  live,  I  shall  leave  it  when 
I  am  summoned  out  of  it,  with  the  secret  satisfaction  of  think- 
ing that  I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

There  are  three  very  material  points  which  I  have  not  spoken 
to  in  this  paper,  and  which,  for  several  important  reasons,  I  must 
keep  to  myself,  at  least  for  some  time:  I  mean,  an  account  of 
my  name,  my  age,  and  my  lodgings.  I  must  confess  I  would 
gratify  my  reader  in  anything  that  is  reasonable;  but  as  for 
these  three  particulars,  though  I  am  sensible  they  might  tend 
very  much  to  the  embellishment  of  my  paper,  I  cannot  yet  come 
to  a  resolution  of  communicating  them  to  the  public.  They 
would  indeed  draw  me  out  of  that  obscurity  which  I  have  en- 
joyed for  many  years,  and  expose  me  in  public  places  to  several 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  23 

salutes  and  civilities,  which  have  been  always  very  disagreeable 
to  me;  for  the  greatest  pain  I  can  suffer  is  the  being  talked  to, 
and  being  stared  at.  It  is  for  this  reason  likewise  that  I  keep 
my  complexion  and  dress  as  very  great  secrets;  though  it  is  not 
impossible  but  I  may  make  discoveries  of  both  in  the  progress 
of  the  work  I  have  undertaken. 

After  having  been  thus  particular  upon  myself,  I  shall  in  to- 
morrow's paper  give  an  account  of  those  gentlemen  who  are 
concerned  with  me  in  this  work;  for,  as  I  have  before  intimated, 
a  plan  of  it  is  laid  and  concerted  (as  all  other  matters  of  impor- 
tance are)  in  a  club.  However,  as  my  friends  have  engaged  me 
to  stand  in  the  front,  those  who  have  a  mind  to  correspond  with 
me  may  direct  their  letters  to  the  Spectator,  at  Mr.  Buckley's 
in  Little  Britain.  For  I  must  further  acquaint  the  reader,  that 
though  our  club  meets  only  on  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays,  we 
have  appointed  a  committee  to  sit  every  night,  for  the  inspection 
of  all  such  papers  as  may  contribute  to  the  advancement  of  the 
public  weal. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator  of  March  1st,  1711. 


THE   MESSAGE    OF   THE   STARS 

Auream  quisquis  mediocritatem 
Diligit,  tutus  caret  obsoleti 
Sordibus  tecti,  caret  invidendd 
Sobrius  auld. 

—  Hor.  Od.  x.  Lib.  II.  5. 

The  golden  mean,  as  she's  too  nice  to  dwell 
Among  the  ruins  of  a  filthy  cell, 
So  is  her  modesty  withal  as  great, 
To  balk  the  envy  of  a  princely  seat. 

—  Norris. 

I  am  wonderfully  pleased  when  I  meet  with  any  passage  in  an 
old  Greek  or  Latin  author  that  is  not  blown  upon,  and  which 
I  have  never  met  with  in  a  quotation.  Of  this  kind  is  a 
beautiful  saying  in  Theognis:  "Vice  is  covered  by  wealth,  and 
virtue  by  poverty w ;  or,  to  give  it  in  the  verbal  translation, 
<( Among  men  there  are  some  who  have  their  vices  concealed  by 
wealth,  and  others  who  have  their  virtues  concealed  by  poverty. B 
Every  man's  observation  will  supply  him  with  instances  of  rich 
men,   who  have  several  faults  and  defects  that  are  overlooked,  if 


24  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

not  entirely  hidden,  by  means  of  their  riches;  and,  I  think,  we 
cannot  find  a  more  natural  description  of  a  poor  man,  whose 
merits  are  lost  in  his  poverty,  than  that  in  the  words  of  the  wise 
man:  <c There  was  a  little  city,  and  few  men  within  it;  and  there 
came  a  great  king  against  it,  and  besieged  it,  and  built  great 
bulwarks  against  it.  Now  there  was  found  in  it  a  poor  wise 
man,  and  he,  by  his  wisdom,  delivered  the  city;  yet  no  man  re- 
membered that  same  poor  man.  Then,  said  I,  wisdom  is  better 
than  strength;  nevertheless,  the  poor  man's  wisdom  is  despised, 
and  his  words  are  not  heard. }) 

The  middle  condition  seems  to  be  the  most  advantageously 
situated  for  the  gaining  of  wisdom.  Poverty  turns  our  thoughts 
too  much  upon  the  supplying  of  our  wants,  and  riches  upon  en- 
joying our  superfluities;  and,  as  Cowley  has  said  in  another  case: 
(( It  is  hard  for  a  man  to  keep  a  steady  eye  upon  truth,  who  is 
always  in  a  battle  or  a  triumph." 

If  we  regard  poverty  and  wealth,  as  they  are  apt  to  produce 
virtues  or  vices  in  the  mind  of  man,  one  may  observe  that  there 
is  a  set  of  each  of  these  growing  out  of  poverty,  quite  different 
from  that  which  rises  out  of  wealth.  Humility  and  patience, 
industry  and  temperance,  are  very  often  the  good  qualities  of  a 
poor  man.  Humanity  and  good  nature,  magnanimity  and  a  sense 
of  honor,  are  as  often  the  qualifications  of  the  rich.  On  the 
contrary,  poverty  is  apt  to  betray  a  man  into  envy,  riches  into 
arrogance;  poverty  is  too  often  attended  with  fraud,  vicious  com- 
pliance, repining,  murmur,  and  discontent.  Riches  expose  a  man 
to  pride  and  luxury,  a  foolish  elation  of  heart,  and  too  great  a 
fondness  for  the  present  world.  Nothing  is  more  irrational  than 
to  pass  away  our  whole  lives,  without  determining  ourselves  one 
way  or  other,  in  those  points  which  are  of  the  last  importance  to 
us.  There  are  indeed  many  things  from  which  we  may  withhold 
our  assent;  but  in  cases  by  which  we  are  to  regulate  our  lives, 
it  is  the  greatest  absurdity  to  be  wavering  and  unsettled,  without 
closing  with  that  side  which  appears  the  most  safe  and  the  most 
probable.  The  first  rule,  therefore,  which  I  shall  lay  down  is 
this:  that  when,  by  reading  or  discourse,  we  find  ourselves  thor- 
oughly convinced  of  the  truth  of  any  article,  and  of  the  reason- 
ableness of  our  belief  in  it,  we  should  never  after  suffer  ourselves 
to  call  it  in  question.  We  may  perhaps  forget  the  arguments 
which  occasioned  our  conviction,  but  we  ought  to  remember  the 
strength  they  had  with  us,  and  therefore  still  to  retain  the  con- 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  25 

viction  which  they  once  produced.  This  is  no  more  than  what 
we  do  in  every  common  art  or  science;  nor  is  it  possible  to  act 
otherwise,  considering-  the  weakness  and  limitation  of  our  intel- 
lectual faculties.  It  was  thus  that  Latimer,  one  of  the  glorious 
army  of  martyrs,  who  introduced  the  Reformation  in  England, 
behaved  himself  in  that  great  conference  which  was  managed 
between  the  most  learned  among  the  Protestants  and  Papists  in 
the  reign  of  Queen  Mary.  This  venerable  old  man,  knowing  his 
abilities  were  impaired  by  age,  and  that  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  recollect  all  those  reasons  which  had  directed  him  in  the 
choice  of  his  religion,  left  his  companions,  who  were  in  the  full 
possession  of  their  parts  and  learning,  to  baffle  and  confound 
their  antagonists  by  the  force  of  reason.  As  for  himself,  he  only 
repeated  to  his  adversaries  the  articles  in  which  he  firmly  be- 
lieved, and  in  the  profession  of  which  he  was  determined  to  die. 
It  is  in  this  manner  that  the  mathematician  proceeds  upon  propo- 
sitions which  he  has  once  demonstrated;  and  though  the  demon- 
stration may  have  slipped  out  of  his  memory,  he  builds  upon  the 
truth,  because  he  knows  it  was  demonstrated.  This  rule  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  for  weaker  minds,  and  in  some  measure  for  men 
of  the  greatest  abilities;  but  to  these  last  I  would  propose,  in  the 
second  place,  that  they  should  lay  up  in  their  memories,  and  al- 
ways keep  by  them  in  readiness,  those  arguments  which  appear 
to  them  of  the  greatest  strength,  and  which  cannot  be  got  over 
by  all  the  doubts  and  cavils  of  infidelity. 

But,  in  the  third  place,  there  is  nothing  which  strengthens 
faith  more  than  morality.  Faith  and  morality  naturally  produce 
each  other.  A  man  is  quickly  convinced  of  the  truth  of  religion, 
who  finds  it  is  not  against  his  interest  that  it  should  be  true. 
The  pleasure  he  receives  at  present,  and  the  happiness  which  he 
promises  himself  from  it  hereafter,  will  both  dispose  him  very 
powerfully  to  give  credit  to  it,  according  to  the  ordinary  obser- 
vation, that  (<we  are  easy  to  believe  what  we  wish.w  It  is  very 
certain  that  a  man  of  sound  reason  cannot  forbear  closing  with 
religion  upon  an  impartial  examination  of  it;  but  at  the  same 
time  it  is  certain  that  faith  is  kept  alive  in  us,  and  gathers 
strength  from  practice  more   than   from   speculation. 

There  is  still  another  method,  which  is  more  persuasive  than 
any  of  the  former;  and  that  is  an  habitual  adoration  of  the  Su- 
preme Being,  as  well  in  constant  acts  of  mental  worship,  as  in 
outward  forms.     The  devout  man  does  not  only  believe,  but  feels 


26  JOSEPH    ADDISON 

there  is  a  Deity.  He  has  actual  sensations  of  him;  his  experience 
concurs  with  his  reason ;  he  sees  him  more  and  more  in  all  his 
intercourses  with  him,  and  even  in  this  life  almost  loses  his  faith 
in  conviction. 

The  last  method  which  I  shall  mention  for  the  giving  life  to 
a  man's  faith,  is  frequent  retirement  from  the  world,  accompanied 
with  religious  meditation.  When  a  man  thinks  of  anything  in 
the  darkness  of  the  night,  whatever  deep  impressions  it  may  make 
in  his  mind,  they  are  apt  to  vanish  as  soon  as  the  day  breaks 
about  him.  The  light  and  noise  of  the  day,  which  are  perpetu- 
ally soliciting  his  senses,  and  calling  off  his  attention,  wear  out 
of  his  mind  the  thoughts  that  imprinted  themselves  in  it,  with  so 
much  strength,  during  the  silence  and  darkness  of  the  night. 
A  man  finds  the  same  difference  as  to  himself  in  a  crowd  and 
in  a  solitude:  the  mind  is  stunned  and  dazzled  amidst  that  va- 
riety of  objects  which  press  upon  her  in  a  great  city.  She  can- 
not apply  herself  to  the  consideration  of  those  things  which  are 
of  the  utmost  concern  to  her.  The  cares  or  pleasures  of  the 
world  strike  in  with  every  thought,  and  a  multitude  of  vicious 
examples  give  a  kind  of  justification  to  our  folly.  In  our  retire- 
ments, everything  disposes  us  to  be  serious.  In  courts  and 
cities  we  are  entertained  with  the  works  of  men;  in  the  country 
with  those  of  God.  One  is  the  province  of  art,  the  other  of  na- 
ture. Faith  and  devotion  naturally  grow  in  the  mind  of  every 
reasonable  man,  who  sees  the  impressions  of  divine  power  and 
wisdom  in  every  object  on  which  he  casts  his  eye.  The  Supreme 
Being  has  made  the  best  arguments  for  his  own  existence,  in  the 
formation  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth;  and  these  are  arguments 
which  a  man  of  sense  cannot  forbear  attending  to,  who  is  out  of 
the  noise  and  hurry  of  human  affairs.  Aristotle  says,  that  should 
a  man  live  under  ground,  and  there  converse  with  the  works  of 
art  and  mechanism,  and  should  afterward  be  brought  up  into  the 
open  day,  and  see  the  several  glories  of  the  heaven  and  earth, 
he  would  immediately  pronounce  them  the  works  of  such  a  be- 
ing as  we  define  God  to  be.  The  Psalmist  has  very  beautiful 
strokes  of  poetry  to  this  purpose,  in  that  exalted  strain :  <(  The 
heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God;  and  the  firmament  showeth 
his  handy  work.  One  day  telleth  another;  and  one  night  certi- 
fieth  another.  There  is  neither  speech  nor  language;  but  their 
voices  are  heard  among  them.  Their  sound  is  gone  out  into  all 
lands;   and  their  words  unto  the  ends  of  the  world. B     As  such  a 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  27 

bold  and  sublime  manner  of  thinking  furnishes  very  noble  mat- 
ter for  an  ode,  the  reader  may  see  it  wrought  into  the  following 

one:  — 

«The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim: 
Th'  unwearied  Sun,  from  day  to  day, 
Does  his  Creator's  pow'r  display, 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  Hand. 

«Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  Moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly  to  the  list'ning  Earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth: 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

«What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball  ? 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 
In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
Forever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
The  Hand  that  made  us  is  Divine.* 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator  of  August  22d,  1712. 


THE  EXTENSION  OF  THE  FEMALE  NECK 

Hoc  vos  ftracipue,  nzvece,  decet,  hoc  ubi  vidi, 
Oscula  ferre  humero,  qua  patet,  usque  Izbet. 

—  Ovid.  Ars  Amator,  Lib.  III.  309. 

There  is  a  certain  female  ornament  by  some  called  a  tucker, 
and  by  others  the  neck-piece,  being  a  slip  of  fine  linen  or 
muslin  that  used  to  run  in  a  small  kind  of  ruffle  round  the 
uppermost  verge  of  the  woman's  stays,  and  by  that  means  cov- 
ered a  great  part  of  the  shoulders  and  bosom.  Having  thus 
given  a  definition,  or  rather  description  of  the  tucker,  I  must 
take  notice  that  our  ladies  have  of  late  thrown  aside  this  fig  leaf, 
and   exposed   in   its   primitive   nakedness   that   gentle  swelling  of 


28  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

the  breast  which  it  was  used  to  conceal.  What  their  design  by 
it  is,  they  themselves  best  know. 

I  observed  this  as  I  was  sitting  the  other  day  by  a  famous 
she-visitant  at  my  lady  Lizard's,  when  accidently  as  I  was  look- 
ing upon  her  face,  letting  my  sight  fall  into  her  bosom,  I  was 
surprised  with  beauties  which  I  never  before  discovered,  and  do 
not  know  where  my  eye  would  have  run,  if  I  had  not  immedi- 
ately checked  it.  The  lady  herself  could  not  forbear  blushing 
when  she  observed  by  my  looks  that  she  had  made  her  neck 
too  beautiful  and  glaring  an  object  even  for  a  man  of  my  char- 
acter and  gravity.  I  could  scarce  forbear  making  use  of  my  hand 
to  cover  so  unseemly  a  sight. 

If  we  survey  the  pictures  of  our  great  grandmothers  in  Queen 
Elizabeth's  time,  we  see  them  clothed  down  to  the  very  wrists, 
and  up  to  the  very  chins.  The  hands  and  faces  were  the  only 
samples  they  gave  of  their  beautiful  persons.  The  following  age 
of  females  made  larger  discoveries  of  their  complexion.  They 
first  of  all  tucked  up  their  garments  to  the  elbow,  and,  notwith- 
standing the  tenderness  of  the  sex,  were  content,  for  the  infor- 
mation of  mankind,  to  expose  their  arms  to  the  coldness  of  the 
air  and  injuries  of  the  weather.  This  artifice  hath  succeeded  to 
their  wishes,  and  betrayed  many  to  their  arms  who  might  have 
escaped  them  had  they  been  still  concealed. 

About  the  same  time,  the  ladies  considering  that  the  neck 
was  a  very  modest  part  in  a  human  body,  they  freed  it  from 
those  yokes,  I  mean  those  monstrous  linen  ruffs,  in  which  the 
simplicity  of  their  grandmothers  had  inclosed  it.  In  proportion 
as  the  age  refined,  the  dress  still  sunk  lower;  so  that  when  we 
now  say  a  woman  has  a  handsome  neck,  we  reckon  into  it  many 
of  the  adjacent  parts.  The  disuse  of  the  tucker  has  still  en- 
larged it,  insomuch  that  the  neck  of  a  fine  woman  at  present 
takes  in  almost  half  the  body. 

Since  the  female  neck  thus  grows  upon  us,  and  the  ladies 
seem  disposed  to  discover  themselves  to  us  more  and  more,  I 
would  fain  have  them  tell  us  once  for  all  how  far  they  intend  to 
go,  and  whether  they  have  yet  determined  among  themselves 
where  to  make  a  stop. 

For  my  own  part,  their  necks,  as  they  call  them,  are  no  more 
than  busts  of  alabaster  in  my  eye.     I  can  look  upon 

« The  yielding  marble  of  a  snowy  breast » 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  29 

with  as  much  coldness  as  this  line  of  Mr.  Waller  represents  in 
the  object  itself.  But  my  fair  readers  ought  to  consider  that  all 
their  beholders  are  not  Nestors.  Every  man  is  not  sufficiently 
qualified  with  age  and  philosophy  to  be  an  indifferent  spectator 
of  such  allurements.  The  eyes  of  young  men  are  curious  and 
penetrating,  their  imaginations  are  of  a  roving  nature,  and  their 
passion  under  no  discipline  or  restraint.  I  am  in  pain  for  a 
woman  of  rank  when  I  see  her  thus  exposing  herself  to  the  re- 
gards of  every  impudent  staring  fellow.  How  can  she  expect 
that  her  quality  can  defend  her,  when  she  gives  such  provoca- 
tion ?  I  could  not  but  observe  last  winter  that  upon  the  disuse 
of  the  neck-piece  (the  ladies  will  pardon  me  if  it  is  not  the  fash- 
ionable term  of  art),  the  whole  tribe  of  oglers  gave  their  eyes  a 
new  determination,  and  stared  the  fair  sex  in  the  neck  rather 
than  in  the  face.  To  prevent  these  saucy  familiar  glances,  I 
would  entreat  my  gentle  readers  to  sew  on  their  tuckers  again, 
to  retrieve  the  modesty  of  their  characters,  and  not  to  imitate 
the  nakedness,  but  the  innocence,  of  their  mother  Eve. 

What  most  troubles  and  indeed  surprises  me  in  this  particu- 
lar, I  have  observed  that  the  leaders  in  this  fashion  were  most 
of  them  married  women.  What  their  design  can  be  in  making 
themselves  bare,  I  cannot  possibly  imagine.  Nobody  exposes 
wares  that  are  appropriated.  When  the  bird  is  taken,  the  snare 
ought  to  be  removed.  It  was  a  remarkable  circumstance  in  the 
institution  of  the  severe  Lycurgus:  as  that  great  lawgiver  knew 
that  the  wealth  and  strength  of  a  republic  consisted  in  the  mul- 
titude of  citizens,  he  did  all  he  could  to  encourage  marriage.  In 
order  to  do  it  he  prescribed  a  certain  loose  dress  for  the  Spartan 
maids,  in  which  there  were  several  artificial  rents  and  openings, 
that,  upon  their  putting  themselves  in  motion,  discovered  several 
limbs  of  the  body  to  the  beholders.  Such  were  the  baits  and 
temptations  made  use  of  by  that  wise  lawgiver,  to  incline  the 
young  men  of  his  age  to  marriage.  But  when  the  maid  was 
once  sped,  she  was  not  suffered  to  tantalize  the  male  part  of  the 
commonwealth.  Her  garments  were  closed  up,  and  stitched  to- 
gether with  the  greatest  care  imaginable.  The  shape  of  her 
limbs  and  complexion  of  her  body  had  gained  their  ends,  and 
were  ever  after  to  be  concealed  from  the  notice  of  the  public. 

I  shall  conclude  this  discourse  of  the  tucker  with  a  moral 
which  I  have  taught  upon  all  occasions,  and  shall  still  continue  to 
inculcate  into  my  female    readers;   namely,  that  nothing  bestows 


30  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

so  much  beauty  on  a  woman  as  modesty.  This  is  a  maxim 
laid  down  by  Ovid  himself,  the  greatest  master  in  the  art  of 
love.  He  observes  upon  it  that  Venus  pleases  most  when  she 
appears  (semi-re  due  to)  in  a  figure  withdrawing  herself  from  the 
eye  of  the  beholder.  It  is  very  probable  he  had  in  his  thoughts 
the  statue  which  we  see  in  the  Venus  de  Medicis,  where  she  is 
represented  in  such  a  shy  retiring  posture,  and  covers  her  bosom 
with  one  of  her  hands.  In  short,  modesty  gives  the  maid  greater 
beauty  than  even  the  bloom  of  youth,  it  bestows  on  the  wife  the 
dignity  of  a  matron,  and  reinstates  the  widow  in  her  virginity. 

Complete.     From  the  Guardian  of  July  6th,  1713. 


THE    PHILOSOPHY   OF   PUNS 

Non  equidem  hoc  studeo  bullatis  tit  nithi  nugis 
Pagina  turgescat,  dare  pondus  idonea  futno. 

—  Pers.  Sat.  V.  19. 

'Tis  not  indeed  my  talent  to  engage 
In  lofty  trifles,  or  to  swell  my  page 
With  wind  and  noise. 

—  Dryden. 

There  is  no  kind  of  false  wit  which  has  been  so  recommended 
by  the  practice  of  all  ages  as  that  which  consists  in  a  jingle 
of  words,  and  is  comprehended  under  the  general  name  of 
punning.  It  is  indeed  impossible  to  kill  a  weed  which  the  soil 
has  a  natural  disposition  to  produce.  The  seeds  of  punning  are 
in  the  minds  of  all  men,  and  though  they  may  be  subdued  by 
reason,  reflection,  and  good  sense,  they  will  be  very  apt  to  shoot 
up  in  the  greatest  genius  that  is  not  broken  and  cultivated  by 
the  rules  of  art.  Imitation  is  natural  to  us,  and  when  it  does 
not  raise  the  mind  to  poetry,  painting,  music,  or  other  more 
noble  arts,  it  often  breaks  out  in  puns  and  quibbles. 

Aristotle,  in  the  eleventh  chapter  of  his  book  of  rhetoric,  de- 
scribes two  or  three  kinds  of  puns,  which  he  calls  paragrams, 
among  the  beauties  of  good  writing,  and  produces  instances  of 
them  out  of  some  of  the  greatest  authors  in  the  Greek  tongue. 
Cicero  has  sprinkled  several  of  his  works  with  puns,  and,  in  his 
book  where  he  lays  down  the  rules  of  oratory,  quotes  abundance 
of  sayings  as  pieces  of  wit,  which  also,  upon  examination,  prove 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  3 1 

arrant  puns.  But  the  age  in  which  the  pun  chiefly  flourished 
was  in  the  reign  of  King  James  I.  That  learned  monarch  was 
himself  a  tolerable  punster,  and  made  very  few  bishops  or  privy 
councilors  that  had  not  some  time  or  other  signalized  themselves 
by  a  clinch,  or  a  conundrum.  It  was,  therefore,  in  this  age  that 
the  pun  appeared  with  pomp  and  dignity.  It  had  been  before 
admitted  into  merry  speeches  and  ludicrous  compositions,  but  was 
now  delivered  with  great  gravity  from  the  pulpit,  or  pronounced 
in  the  most  solemn  manner  at  the  council  table.  The  greatest 
authors,  in  their  most  serious  works,  made  frequent  use  of  puns. 
The  sermons  of  Bishop  Andrews,  and  the  tragedies  of  Shakes- 
peare, are  full  of  them.  The  sinner  was  punned  into  repentance 
by  the  former;  as  in  the  latter,  nothing  is  more  usual  than  to 
see  a  hero  weeping  and  quibbling  for  a  dozen  lines  together. 

I  must  add  to  these  great  authorities,  which  seem  to  have 
given  a  kind  of  sanction  to  this  piece  of  false  wit,  that  all  the 
writers  of  rhetoric  have  treated  of  punning  with  very  great  re- 
spect, and  divided  the  several  kinds  of  it  into  hard  names  that 
are  reckoned  among  the  figures  of  speech,  and  recommended  as 
ornaments  in  discourse.  I  remember  a  country  schoolmaster  of 
my  acquaintance  told  me  once  that  he  had  been  in  company 
with  a  gentleman  whom  he  looked  upon  to  be  the  greatest  para- 
grammatist  among  the  moderns.  Upon  inquiry,  I  found  my 
learned  friend  had  dined  that  day  with  Mr.  Swan,  the  famous 
punster;  and  desiring  him  to  give  me  some  account  of  Mr. 
Swan's  conversation,  he  told  me  that  he  generally  talked  in  the 
Paranomasia,  that  he  sometimes  gave  in  to  the  Ploce,  but  that 
in  his  humble  opinion  he  shone  most  in  the  Antanaclasis. 

I  must  not  here  omit  that  a  famous  university  of  this  land 
was  formerly  very  much  infested  with  puns;  but  whether  or  not 
this  might  arise  from  the  fens  and  marshes  in  which  it  was  situ- 
ated, and  which  are  now  drained,  I  must  leave  to  the  determina- 
tion of  more  skillful  naturalists. 

After  this  short  history  of  punning,  one  would  wonder  how  it 
should  be  so  entirely  banished  out  of  the  learned  world  as  it  is 
at  present,  especially  since  it  had  found  a  place  in  the  writings 
of  the  most  ancient  polite  authors.  To  account  for  this  we  must 
consider  that  the  first  race  of  authors,  who  were  the  great  heroes 
in  writing,  were  destitute  of  all  rules  and  arts  of  criticism;  and 
for  that  reason,  though  they  excel  later  writers  in  greatness  of 
genius,  they  fall  short  of  them  in  accuracy  and  correctness.    The 


32  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

moderns  cannot  reach  their  beauties,  but  can  avoid  their  imper- 
fections. When  the  world  was  furnished  with  these  authors  of 
the  first  eminence,  there  grew  up  another  set  of  writers,  who 
gained  themselves  a  reputation  by  the  remarks  which  they  made 
on  the  works  of  those  who  preceded  them.  It  was  one  of  the 
employments  of  these  secondary  authors  to  distinguish  the  several 
kinds  of  wit  by  terms  of  art,  and  to  consider  them  as  more  or 
less  perfect,  according  as  they  were  founded  in  truth.  It  is  no 
wonder,  therefore,  that  even  such  authors  as  Isocrates,  Plato,  and 
Cicero,  should  have  such  little  blemishes  as  are  not  to  be  met 
with  in  authors  of  a  much  inferior  character,  who  have  written 
since  those  several  blemishes  were  discovered.  I  do  not  find  that 
there  was  a  proper  separation  made  between  puns  and  true  wit 
by  any  of  the  ancient  authors,  except  Quintilian  and  Longinus. 
But  when  this  distinction  was  once  settled,  it  was  very  natural 
for  all  men  of  sense  to  agree  in  it.  As  for  the  revival  of  this 
false  wit,  it  happened  about  the  time  of  the  Revival  of  Letters; 
but  as  soon  as  it  was  once  detected  it  immediately  vanished  and 
disappeared.  At  the  same  time  there  is  no  question  but,  as  it 
has  sunk  in  one  age  and  rose  in  another,  it  will  again  recover 
itself  in  some  distant  period  of  time,  as  pedantry  and  ignorance 
shall  prevail  upon  wit  and  sense.  And,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  do 
very  much  apprehend,  by  some  of  the  last  winter's  productions, 
which  had  their  sets  of  admirers,  that  our  posterity  will  in  a  few 
years  degenerate  into  a  race  of  punsters:  at  least,  a  man  may  be 
very  excusable  for  any  apprehensions  of  this  kind,  that  has  seen 
acrostics  handed  about  the  town  with  great  secrecy  and  applause; 
to  which  I  must  also  add  a  little  epigram  called  the  (<  Witches' 
Prayer, w  that  fell  into  verse  when  it  was  read  either  backward 
or  forward,  excepting  only  that  it  cursed  one  way  and  blessed 
the  other.  When  one  sees  there  are  actually  such  painstakers 
among  our  British  wits,  who  can  tell  what  it  may  end  in  ?  If  we 
must  lash  one  another,  let  it  be  with  the  manly  strokes  of  wit 
and  satire:  for  I  am  of  the  old  philosopher's  opinion  that,  if  I 
must  suffer  from  one  or  the  other,  I  would  rather  it  should  be 
from  the  paw  of  a  lion  than  from  the  hoof  of  an  ass.  I  do  not 
speak  this  out  of  any  spirit  of  party.  There  is  a  most  crying 
dullness  on  both  sides.  I  have  seen  Tory  acrostics  and  Whig 
anagrams,  and  do  not  quarrel  with  either  of  them  because  they 
are  Whigs  or  Tories,  but  because  they  are  anagrams  and  acros- 
tics. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  33 

But  to  return  to  punning.  Having  pursued  the  history  of  a 
pun,  from  its  original  to  its  downfall,  I  shall  here  define  it  to  be 
a  conceit  arising  from  the  use  of  two  words  that  agree  in  the 
sound,  but  differ  in  the  sense.  The  only  way,  therefore,  to  try  a 
piece  of  wit  is  to  translate  it  into  a  different  language.  If  it 
bear  the  test,  you  may  pronounce  it  true;  but  if  it  vanish  in 
the  experiment  you  may  conclude  it  to  have  been  a  pun.  In 
short,  one  may  say  of  a  pun,  as  the  countryman  described  his 
nightingale,  that  it  is  a  vox  et  prczterea  nihil*1*  — <(  a  sound,  and 
nothing  but  a  sound. M  On  the  contrary,  one  may  represent  true 
wit  by  the  description  which  Aristaenetus  makes  of  a  fine  woman : 
(<  When  she  is  dressed  she  is  beautiful :  when  she  is  undressed 
she  is  beautiful  M ;  or,  as  Mercerus  has  translated  it  more  emphati- 
cally, w  Induitur,  formosa  est:  exuitur,  ipsa  forma  est* 


WIT   AND  WISDOM   IN   LITERATURE 
Scribendi  recte  sapere  est  et  prmcipiu?n,  et  pons. —  Hor.  Ars  Poet.  309. 
Sound  judgment  is  the  ground  of  writing  well. —  Roscotnmon. 

Mr.  Locke  has  an  admirable  reflection  upon  the  difference  of 
wit  and  judgment,  whereby  he  endeavors  to  show  the 
reason  why  they  are  not  always  the  talents  of  the  same 
person.  His  words  are  as  follows:  "And  hence,  perhaps,  may 
be  given  some  reason  of  that  common  observation,  *  That  men  who 
have  a  great  deal  of  wit,  and  prompt  memories,  have  not  always 
the  clearest  judgment  or  deepest  reason.*  For  wit  lying  most  in 
the  assemblage  of  ideas,  and  putting  those  together  with  quick- 
ness and  variety  wherein  can  be  found  any  resemblance  or  con- 
gruity,  thereby  to  make  up  pleasant  pictures  and  agreeable  visions 
in  the  fancy:  judgment,  on  the  contrary,  lies  quite  on  the  other 
side,  in  separating  carefully  one  from  another  ideas  wherein  can 
be  found  the  least  difference,  thereby  to  avoid  being  misled  by 
similitude,  and  by  affinity  to  take  one  thing  for  another.  This 
is  a  way  of  proceeding  quite  contrary  to  metaphor  and  allusion, 
wherein,  for  the  most  part,  lies  that  entertainment  and  pleasantry 
of  wit  which  strikes  so  lively  on  the  fancy,  and  is  therefore  so 
acceptable  to  all  people. n 

This  is,   I  think,  the  best  and  most  philosophical  account  that 
I  have  ever  met  with  of  wit,  which  generally,  though  not  always, 
i— 3 


34  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

consists  in  such  a  resemblance  and  congruity  of  ideas  as  this  au- 
thor mentions.  I  shall  only  add  to  it,  by  way  of  explanation, 
that  every  resemblance  of  ideas  is  not  that  which  we  call  wit, 
unless  it  be  such  an  one  that  gives  delight  and  surprise  to  the 
reader.  These  two  properties  seem  essential  to  wit,  more  partic- 
ularly the  last  of  them.  In  order,  therefore,  that  the  resemblance 
in  the  ideas  be  wit,  it  is  necessary  that  the  ideas  should  not  lie 
too  near  one  another  in  the  nature  of  things;  for,  where  the 
likeness  is  obvious,  it  gives  no  surprise.  To  compare  one  man's 
singing  to  that  of  another,  or  to  represent  the  whiteness  of  any 
object  by  that  of  milk  and  snow,  or  the  variety  of  its  colors  by 
those  of  the  rainbow,  cannot  be  called  wit,  unless,  besides  this 
obvious  resemblance,  there  be  some  further  congruity  discovered 
in  the  two  ideas  that  is  capable  of  giving  the  reader  some  sur- 
prise. Thus,  when  a  poet  tells  us  the  bosom  of  his  mistress  is 
as  white  as  snow,  there  is  no  wit  in  the  comparison;  but  when 
he  adds,  with  a  sigh,  it  is  as  cold  too,  it  then  grows  into  wit. 
Every  reader's  memory  may  supply  him  with  innumerable  in- 
stances of  the  same  nature.  For  this  reason,  the  similitudes  in 
heroic  poets,  who  endeavor  rather  to  fill  the  mind  with  great 
conceptions  than  to  divert  it  with  such  as  are  new  and  surpris- 
ing, have  seldom  anything  in  them  that  can  be  called  wit.  Mr. 
Locke's  account  of  wit,  with  this  short  explanation,  comprehends 
most  of  the  species  of  wit,  as  metaphors,  similitudes,  allegories, 
enigmas,  mottoes,  parables,  fables,  dreams,  visions,  dramatic  writ- 
ings, burlesque,  and  all  the  methods  of  allusion:  as  there  are 
many  other  pieces  of  wit,  how  remote  soever  they  may  appear  at 
first  sight  from  the  foregoing  description,  which  upon  examina- 
tion will  be  found  to  agree  with  it. 

As  true  wit  generally  consists  in  this  resemblance  and  con- 
gruity of  ideas,  false  wit  chiefly  consists  in  the  resemblance  and 
congruity  sometimes  of  single  letters,  as  in  anagrams,  chrono- 
grams, lipograms,  and  acrostics;  sometimes  of  syllables,  as  in 
echoes  and  doggerel  rhymes;  sometimes  of  words,  as  in  puns  and 
quibbles;  and  sometimes  of  whole  semences  or  poems,  cast  into 
the  figures  of  eggs,  axes,  or  altars;  nay,  some  carry  the  notion 
of  wit  so  far  as  to  ascribe  it  even  to  external  mimicry,  and  to 
look  upon  a  man  as  an  ingenious  person  that  can  resemble  the 
tone,  posture,  or  face  of  another. 

As  true  wit  consists  in  the  resemblance  of  ideas,  and  false  wit 
in  the  resemblance  of  words,  according  to  the  foregoing  instances, 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  35 

there  is  another  kind  of  wit  which  consists  partly  in  the  resem- 
blance of  ideas  and  partly  in  the  resemblance  of  words,  which 
for  distinction's  sake  I  shall  call  mixed  wit.  This  kind  of  wit  is 
that  which  abounds  in  Cowley  more  than  in  any  author  that  ever 
wrote.  Mr.  Waller  has  likewise  a  great  deal  of  it.  Mr.  Dryden 
is  very  sparing  in  it.  Milton  had  a  genius  much  above  it.  Spen- 
ser is  in  the  same  class  with  Milton.  The  Italians,  even  in  their 
epic  poetry,  are  full  of  it.  Monsieur  Boileau,  who  formed  himself 
upon  the  ancient  poets,  has  everywhere  rejected  it  with  scorn. 
If  we  look  after  mixed  wit  among  the  Greek  writers,  we  shall 
find  it  nowhere  but  in  the  epigrammatists.  There  are  indeed 
some  strokes  of  it  in  the  little  poem  ascribed  to  Musaeus,  which, 
by  that  as  well  as  many  other  marks,  betrays  itself  to  be  a  mod- 
ern composition.  If  we  look  into  the  Latin  writers  we  find  none 
of  this  mixed  wit  in  Virgil,  Lucretius,  or  Catullus;  very  little  in 
Horace,  but  a  great  deal  of  it  in  Ovid,  and  scarce  anything  else 
in  Martial. 

Out  of  the  innumerable  branches  of  mixed  wit,  I  shall  choose 
one  instance  which  may  be  met  with  in  all  the  writers  of  this 
class.  The  passion  of  love  in  its  nature  has  been  thought  to  re- 
semble fire,  for  which  reason  the  words  <(  fire  n  and  (<  flame *  are 
made  use  of  to  signify  love.  The  witty  poets,  therefore,  have 
taken  an  advantage,  from  the  doubtful  meaning  of  the  word 
"fire,*  to  make  an  infinite  number  of  witticisms.  Cowley  observ- 
ing the  cold  regard  of  his  mistress's  eyes,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  power  of  producing  love  in  him,  considers  them  as  burning- 
glasses  made  of  ice;  and,  finding  himself  able  to  live  in  the 
greatest  extremities  of  love,  concludes  the  torrid  zone  to  be  hab- 
itable. When  his  mistress  has  read  his  letter  written  in  juice  of 
lemon,  by  holding  it  to  the  fire,  he  desires  her  to  read  it  over  a 
second  time  by  love's  flames.  When  she  weeps,  he  wishes  it 
were  inward  heat  that  distilled  those  drops  from  the  limbec. 
When  she  is  absent,  he  is  beyond  eighty,  that  is,  thirty  degrees 
nearer  the  pole  than  when  she  is  with  him.  His  ambitious  love 
is  a  fire  that  naturally  mounts  upwards;  his  happy  love  is  the 
beams  of  heaven,  and  his  unhappy  love  flames  of  hell.  When  it 
does  not  let  him  sleep,  it  is  a  flame  that  sends  up  no  smoke; 
when  it  is  opposed  by  counsel  and  advice,  it  is  a  fire  that  rages 
the  more  by  the  winds  blowing  upon  it.  Upon  the  dying  of  a 
tree,  in  which  he  had  cut  his  loves,  he  observes  that  his  written 
flames  had   burnt  up  and  withered  the  tree.     When  he  resolves 


36  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

to  give  over  his  passion,  he  tells  us  that  one  burnt  like  him  for- 
ever dreads  the  fire.  His  heart  is  an  yEtna,  that,  instead  of  Vul- 
can's shop,  incloses  Cupid's  forge  in  it.  His  endeavoring  to 
drown  his  love  in  wine  is  throwing  oil  upon  the  fire.  He  would 
insinuate  to  his  mistress  that  the  fire  of  love,  like  that  of  the 
sun,  which  produces  so  many  living  creatures,  should  not  only 
warm,  but  beget.  Love  in  another  place  cooks  Pleasure  at  his 
fire.  Sometimes  the  poet's  heart  is  frozen  in  every  breast,  and 
sometimes  scorched  in  every  eye.  Sometimes  he  is  drowned  in 
tears  and  burnt  in  love,  like  a  ship  set  on  fire  in  the  middle  of 
the  sea. 

The  reader  may  observe  in  every  one  of  these  instances  that 
the  poet  mixes  the  qualities  of  fire  with  those  of  love;  and  in 
the  same  sentence,  speaking  of  it  both  as  a  passion  and  as  real 
fire,  surprises  the  reader  with  those  seeming  resemblances  or 
contradictions  that  make  up  all  the  wit  in  this  kind  of  writing. 
Mixed  wit,  therefore,  is  a  composition  of  pun  and  true  wit,  and 
is  more  or  less  perfect  as  the  resemblance  lies  in  the  ideas  or  in 
the  words.  Its  foundations  are  laid  partly  in  falsehood  and 
partly  in  truth;  reason  puts  in  her  claim  for  one  half  of  it,  and 
extravagance  for  the  other.  The  only  province,  therefore,  for 
this  kind  of  wit  is  epigram,  or  those  little  occasional  poems  that 
in  their  own  nature  are  nothing  else  but  a  tissue  of  epigrams. 
I  cannot  conclude  this  head  of  mixed  wit  without  owning  that 
the  admirable  poet,  out  of  whom  I  have  taken  the  examples  of 
it,  had  as  much  true  wit  as  any  author  that  ever  wrote;  and,  in- 
deed, all  other  talents  of  an  extraordinary  genius. 

It  may  be  expected,  since  I  am  upon  this  subject,  that  I 
should  take  notice  of  Mr.  Dryden's  definition  of  wit,  which,  with 
all  the  deference  that  is  due  to  the  judgment  of  so  great  a  man, 
is  not  so  properly  a  definition  of  wit  as  of  good  writing  in  gen- 
eral. Wit,  as  he  defines  it,  is  (<  a  propriety  of  words  and  thoughts 
adapted  to  the  subject."  If  this  be  a  true  definition  of  wit,  I  am 
apt  to  think  that  Euclid  was  the  greatest  wit  that  ever  set  pen 
to  paper.  It  is  certain  there  never  was  a  greater  propriety  of 
words  and  thoughts  adapted  to  the  subject  than  what  that  author 
has  made  use  of  in  his  <(  Elements.  *  I  shall  only  appeal  to  my 
reader  if  this  definition  agrees  with  any  notion  he  has  of  wit. 
If  it  be  a  true  one,  I  am  sure  Mr.  Dryden  was  not  only  a  better 
poet,  but  a  greater  wit  than  Mr.  Cowley,  and  Virgil  a  much 
more  facetious  man  than  either  Ovid  or  Martial. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  37 

Bouhours,  whom  I  look  upon  to  be  the  most  penetrating  of 
all  the  French  critics,  has  taken  pains  to  show  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  any  thought  to  be  beautiful  which  is  not  just,  and  has 
not  its  foundation  in  the  nature  of  things;  that  the  basis  of  all 
wit  is  truth;  and  that  no  thought  can  be  valuable  of  which  good 
sense  is  not  the  groundwork.  Boileau  has  endeavored  to  incul- 
cate the  same  notion  in  several  parts  of  his  writings,  both  in 
prose  and  verse.  This  is  that  natural  way  of  writing,  that  beau- 
tiful simplicity  which  we  so  much  admire  in  the  compositions  of 
the  ancients,  and  which  nobody  deviates  from  but  those  who 
want  strength  of  genius  to  make  a  thought  shine  in  its  own  nat- 
ural beauties.  Poets  who  want  this  strength  of  genius  to  give 
that  majestic  simplicity  to  nature,  which  we  so  much  admire  in 
the  works  of  the  ancients,  are  forced  to  hunt  after  foreign  orna- 
ments, and  not  to  let  any  piece  of  wit  of  what  kind  soever  es- 
cape them.  I  look  upon  these  writers  as  Goths  in  poetry,  who, 
like  those  in  architecture,  not  being  able  to  come  up  to  the 
beautiful  simplicity  of  the  old  Greeks  and  Romans,  have  endeav- 
ored to  supply  its  place  with  all  the  extravagancies  of  an  irregu- 
lar fancy.  Mr.  Dryden  makes  a  very  handsome  observation  on 
Ovid's  writing  a  letter  from  Dido  to  iEneas,  in  the  following 
words :  (<  Ovid, 8  says  he,  speaking  of  Virgil's  fiction  of  Dido  and 
^Eneas,  <(  takes  it  up  after  him,  even  in  the  same  age,  and  makes 
an  ancient  heroine  of  Virgil's  new-created  Dido;  dictates  a  letter 
for  her  just  before  her  death  to  the  ungrateful  fugitive,  and,  very 
unluckily  for  himself,  is  for  measuring  a  sword  with  a  man  so 
much  superior  in  force  to  him  on  the  same  subject.  I  think  I 
may  be  judge  of  this,  because  I  have  translated  both.  The 
famous  author  of  (  The  Art  of  Love  >  has  nothing  of  his  own ;  he 
borrows  all  from  a  greater  master  in  his  own  profession,  and, 
which  is  worse,  improves  nothing  which  he  finds.  Nature  fails 
him;  and,  being  forced  to  his  old  shift,  he  has  recourse  to  wit- 
ticism. This  passes  indeed  with  his  soft  admirers,  and  gives 
him  the  preference  to  Virgil  in  their  esteem. B 

Were  not  I  supported  by  so  great  an  authority  as  that  of  Mr. 
Dryden,  I  should  not  venture  to  observe  that  the  taste  of  most 
of  our  English  poets,  as  well  as  readers,  is  extremely  Gothic.  He 
quotes  Monsieur  Segrais  for  a  threefold  distinction  of  the  readers 
of  poetry;  in  the  first  of  which  he  comprehends  the  rabble  of 
readers,   whom   he   does   not   treat   as   such  with   regard   to   their 


38  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

quality,  but  to  their  numbers  and  the  coarseness  of  their  taste. 
His  words  are  as  follows :  <(  Segrais  has  distinguished  the  readers 
of  poetry,  according  to  their  capacity  of  judging,  into  three 
classes."  [He  might  have  said  the  same  of  writers  too,  if  he  had 
pleased.]  <(  In  the  lowest  form  he  places  those  whom  he  calls 
Les  Petits  Esprits,  such  things  as  our  upper-gallery  audience 
in  a  playhouse,  who  like  nothing  but  the  husk  and  rind  of 
wit,  and  prefer  a  quibble,  a  conceit,  an  epigram  before  solid 
sense  and  elegant  expression.  These  are  mob  readers  If  Virgil 
and  Martial  stood  for  parliament  men,  we  know  already  who 
would  carry  it.  But  though  they  made  the  greatest  appearance 
in  the  field,  and  cried  the  loudest,  the  best  of  it  is  they  are 
but  a  sort  of  French  Huguenots,  or  Dutch  Boors,  brought  over 
in  herds,  but  not  naturalized;  who  have  not  lands  of  two  pounds 
per  annum  in  Parnassus,  and  therefore  are  not  privileged  to  poll. 
Their  authors  are  of  the  same  level,  fit  to  represent  them  on  a 
mountebank's  stage,  or  to  be  masters  of  the  ceremonies  in  a  bear- 
garden; yet  these  are  they  who  have  the  most  admirers.  But  it 
often  happens,  to  their  mortification,  that  as  their  readers  im- 
prove their  stock  of  sense,  as  they  may  by  reading  better  books, 
and  by  conversation  with  men  of  judgment,  they  soon  forsake 
them. » 

I  must  not  dismiss  this  subject  without  observing  that,  as 
Mr.  Locke,  in  the  passage  above  mentioned,  has  discovered  the 
most  fruitful  source  of  wit,  so  there  is  another  of  a  quite  con- 
trary nature  to  it,  which  does  likewise  branch  itself  into  several 
kinds.  For  not  only  the  resemblance,  but  the  opposition,  of  ideas 
does  very  often  produce  wit,  as  I  could  show  in  several  little 
points,  turns,  and  antitheses  that  I  may  possibly  enlarge  upon 
in  some  future  speculation. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  39 


WOMEN'S   MEN    AND   THEIR   WAYS 


Sed  tti  simul  obligasti 

Perfidum  votis  caput,  enitescis 
Pulchrior  multo. — Hor.  Lib.  II  Od.  viii.  5. 


-But  thou, 


When  once  thou  hast  broke  some  tender  vow 
All  perjur'd,  dost  more  charming  grow  ? 

I   do  not    think    anything  could  make  a  pleasanter  entertainment 
than  the  history  of  the  reigning  favorites  among  the  women 

from  time  to  time  about  this  town.  In  such  an  account  we 
ought  to  have  a  faithful  confession  of  each  lady  for  what  she 
liked  such  and  such  a  man,  and  he  ought  to  tell  us  by  what  par- 
ticular action  or  dress  he  believed  he  should  be  most  successful. 
As  for  my  part,  I  have  always  made  as  easy  a  judgment  when  a 
man  dresses  for  the  ladies,  as  when  he  is  equipped  for  hunting 
or  coursing.  The  woman's  man  is  a  person  in  his  air  and  be- 
havior quite  different  from  the  rest  of  our  species.  His  garb  is 
more  loose  and  negligent,  his  manner  more  soft  and  indolent; 
that  is  to  say,  in  both  these  cases  there  is  an  apparent  endeavor 
to  appear  unconcerned  and  careless.  In  catching  birds  the  fowl- 
ers have  a  method  of  imitating  their  voices,  to  bring  them  to 
the  snare;  and  your  women's  men  have  always  a  similitude  of 
the  creature  they  hope  to  betray  in  their  own  conversation.  A 
woman's  man  is  very  knowing  in  all  that  passes  from  one  family 
to  another,  has  pretty  little  officiousnesses,  is  not  at  a  loss  what 
is  good  for  a  cold,  and  it  is  not  amiss  if  he  has  a  bottle  of 
spirits  in  his  pocket  in  case  of   any  sudden  indisposition. 

Curiosity  having  been  my  prevailing  passion,  and  indeed  the 
sole  entertainment  of  my  life,  I  have  sometimes  made  it  my 
business  to  examine  the  course  of  intrigues  as  well  as  the  man- 
ners and  accomplishments  of  such  as  have  been  most  successful 
that  way.  In  all  my  observation,  I  never  knew  a  man  of  good 
understanding  a  general  favorite;  some  singularity  in  his  behav- 
ior, some  whim  in  his  way  of  life,  and  what  would  have  made 
him  ridiculous  among  the  men,  has  recommended  him  to  the 
other  sex.  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  offend  a  people  so  fortu- 
nate as  these  of  whom  I  am  speaking;  but  let  any  one  look  over 
the  old  beaux,  and  he  will  find  the  man  of  success  was  remark- 
able  for   quarreling   impertinently   for    their   sakes,   for    dressing 


40  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

unlike  the  rest  of  the  world,  or  passing  his  days  in  an  insipid 
assiduity  about  the  fair  sex  to  gain  the  figure  he  made  amongst 
them.  Add  to  this,  that  he  must  have  the  reputation  of  being 
well  with  other  women,  to  please  any  one  woman  of  gallantry; 
for  you  are  to  know  that  there  is  a  mighty  ambition  among  the 
light  part  of  the  sex  to  gain  slaves  from  the  dominion  of  others. 
My  friend  Will  Honeycomb  says  it  was  a  common  bite  with  him 
to  lay  suspicions  that  he  was  favored  by  a  lady's  enemy,  that  is, 
some  rival  beauty,  to  be  well  with  herself.  A  little  spite  is  nat- 
ural to  a  great  beauty:  and  it  is  ordinary  to  snap  up  a  disagree- 
able fellow,  lest  another  should  have  him.  That  impudent  toad 
Bareface  fares  well  among  all  the  ladies  he  converses  with,  for 
no  other  reason  in  the  world  but  that  he  has  the  skill  to  keep 
them  from  explanation  with  one  another.  Did  they  know  there 
is  not  one  who  likes  him  in  her  heart,  each  would  declare  her 
scorn  of  him  the  next  moment;  but  he  is  well  received  by  them 
because  it  is  the  fashion,  and  opposition  to  each  other  brings 
them  insensibly  into  an  imitation  of  each  other.  What  adds  to 
him  the  greatest  grace  is,  that  the  pleasant  thief,  as  they  call 
him,  is  the  most  inconstant  creature  living,  has  a  wonderful  deal 
of  wit  and  humor,  and  never  wants  something  to  say;  besides  all 
which,  he  has  a  most  spiteful  dangerous  tongue  if  you  should 
provoke  him. 

To  make  a  woman's  man,  he  must  not  be  a  man  of  sense,  or 
a  fool;  the  business  is  to  entertain,  and  it  is  much  better  to  have 
a  faculty  of  arguing  than  a  capacity  of  judging  right.  But  the 
pleasantest  of  all  the  women's  equipage  are  your  regular  visi- 
tants; these  are  volunteers  in  their  service,  without  hopes  of  pay 
or  preferment.  It  is  enough  that  they  can  lead  out  from  a  pub- 
lic place,  that  they  are  admitted  on  a  public  day,  and  can  be  al- 
lowed to  pass  away  part  of  that  heavy  load,  their  time,  in  the 
company  of  the  fair.  But  commend  me  above  all  others  to  those 
who  are  known  for  your  ruiners  of  ladies;  these  are  the  choicest 
spirits  which  our  age  produces.  We  have  several  of  these  irre- 
sistible gentlemen  among  us  when  the  company  is  in  town. 
These  fellows  are  accomplished  with  the  knowledge  of  the  ordi- 
nary occurrences  about  court  and  town,  have  that  sort  of  good 
breeding  which  is  exclusive  of  all  morality,  and  consists  only  in 
being  publicly  decent,  privately  dissolute. 

It  is  wonderful  how  far  a  fond  opinion  of  herself  can  carry  a 
woman,  to  make  her  have  the  least  regard  to  a  professed  known 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  41 

woman's  man;  but  as  scarce  one  of  all  the  women  who  are  in 
the  tour  of  gallantries  ever  hears  anything  of  what  is  the  com- 
mon sense  of  sober  minds,  but  are  entertained  with  a  continual 
round  of  flatteries,  they  cannot  be  mistresses  of  themselves 
enough  to  make  arguments  for  their  own  conduct  from  the  be- 
havior of  these  men  to  others.  It  is  so  far  otherwise,  that  a 
general  fame  for  falsehood  in  this  kind  is  a  recommendation; 
and  the  coxcomb,  loaded  with  the  favors  of  many  others,  is  re- 
ceived like  a  victor  that  disdains  his  trophies,  to  be  a  victim  to 
the  present  charmer. 

If  you  see  a  man  more  full  of  gesture  than  ordinary  in  a 
public  assembly,  if  loud  upon  no  occasion,  if  negligent  of  the 
company  around  him,  and  yet  lying  in  wait  for  destroying  by  that 
negligence,  you  may  take  it  for  granted  that  he  has  ruined 
many  a  fair  one.  The  woman's  man  expresses  himself  wholly  in 
that  motion  which  we  call  strutting.  An  elevated  chest,  a  pinched 
hat,  a  measurable  step,  and  a  sly  surveying  eye  are  the  marks 
of  him.  Now  and  then  you  see  a  gentleman  with  all  these  ac- 
complishments; but,  alas,  any  one  of  them  is  enough  to  undo 
thousands.  When  a  gentleman  with  such  perfections  adds  to  it 
suitable  learning,  there  should  be  public  warning  of  his  residence 
in  town,  that  we  may  remove  our  wives  and  daughters.  It  hap- 
pens sometimes  that  such  a  fine  man  has  read  all  the  miscellany 
poems,  a  few  of  our  comedies,  and  has  the  translation  of  Ovid's 
(<  Epistles *  by  heart.  <(  Oh,  if  it  were  possible  that  such  a  one 
could  be  as  true  as  he  is  charming!  But  that  is  too  much,  the 
women  will  share  such  a  dear  false  man;  a  little  gallantry  to 
hear  him  talk  one  would  indulge  oneself  in,  let  him  reckon  the 
sticks  of  one's  fan,  say  something  of  the  Cupids  on  it,  and  then 
call  one  so  many  soft  names  which  a  man  of  his  learning  has 
at  his  fingers'  ends.  There  sure  is  some  excuse  for  frailty,  when 
attacked  by  such  force  against  a  weak  woman. w  Such  is  the  so- 
liloquy of  many  a  lady  one  might  name,  at  the  sight  of  one  of 
those  who  make  it  no  iniquity  to  go  on  from  day  to  day  in  the 
sin  of  woman-slaughter. 

It  is  certain  that  people  are  got  into  a  way  of  affectation,  with 
a  manner  of  overlooking  the  most  solid  virtues,  and  admiring  the 
most  trivial  excellencies.  The  woman  is  so  far  from  expecting 
to  be  contemned  for  being  a  very  injudicious  silly  animal,  that 
while  she  can  preserve  her  features  and  her  mien,  she  knows 
she  is  still   the    object   of   desire;    and   there   is   a   sort  of   secret 


42  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

ambition,  from  reading  frivolous  books,  and  keeping  as  frivolous 
company,  each  side  to  be  amiable  in  perfection,  and  arrive  at 
the  characters  of  the  Dear  Deceiver  and  the  Perjured  Fair. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator  of  August  29th,  1711. 

THE   POETRY   OF   THE   COMMON    PEOPLE 

Interdum  vulgus  rectum  videt. — Hor.  Ep.   II.  i,  63. 

Sometimes  the  vulgar  see  and  judge  aright. 

When  I  traveled  I  took  a  particular  delight  in  hearing  the 
songs  and  fables  that  are  come  from  father  to  son,  and 
are  most  in  vogue  among  the  common  people  of  the 
countries  through  which  I  passed;  for  it  is  impossible  that  any- 
thing should  be  universally  tasted  and  approved  by  a  multitude, 
though  they  are  only  the  rabble  of  a  nation,  which  hath  not  in 
it  some  peculiar  aptness  to  please  and  gratify  the  mind  of  man. 
Human  nature  is  the  same  in  all  reasonable  creatures;  and  what- 
ever falls  in  with  it  will  meet  with  admirers  amongst  readers  of 
all  qualities  and  conditions.  Moliere,  as  we  are  told  by  Monsieur 
Boileau,  used  to  read  all  his  comedies  to  an  old  woman  who  was 
his  housekeeper,  as  she  sat  with  him  at  her  work  by  the  chimney- 
corner,  and  could  foretell  the  success  of  his  play  in  the  theatre 
from  the  reception  it  met  at  his  fireside;  for  he  tells  us  the  audi- 
ence always  followed  the  old  woman,  and  never  failed  to  laugh 
in  the  same  place. 

I  know  nothing  which  more  shows  the  essential  and  inherent 
perfection  of  simplicity  of  thought,  above  that  which  I  call  the 
Gothic  manner  in  writing,  than  this,  that  the  first  pleases  all 
kinds  of  palates,  and  the  latter  only  such  as  have  formed  to 
themselves  a  wrong  artificial  taste  upon  little  fanciful  authors 
and  writers  of  epigram.  Homer,  Virgil,  or  Milton,  so  far  as  the 
language  of  their  poems  is  understood,  will  please  a  reader  of 
plain  common  sense,  who  would  neither  relish  nor  comprehend 
an  epigram  of  Martial,  or  a  poem  of  Cowley;  so,  on  the  contrary, 
an  ordinary  song  or  ballad  that  is  the  delight  of  the  common 
people  cannot  fail  to  please  all  such  readers  as  are  not  unquali- 
fied for  the  entertainment  by  their  affectation  of  ignorance ;  and 
the  reason  is  plain,  because  the  same  paintings  of  nature  which 
recommend  it  to  the  most  ordinary  reader  will  appear  beautiful 
to  the  most  refined. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  43 

The  old  song  of  w  Chevy  Chase  *  is  the  favorite  ballad  of  the 
common  people  of  England,  and  Ben  Jonson  used  to  say  he  had 
rather  have  been  the  author  of  it  than  of  all  his  works.  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  in  his  discourse  of  Poetry,  speaks  of  it  in  the  fol- 
lowing words :  <(  I  never  heard  the  old  song  of  Percy  and  Doug- 
las that  I  found  not  my  heart  more  moved  than  with  a  trumpet ; 
and  yet  it  is  sung  by  some  blind  crowder  with  no  rougher  voice 
than  rude  style,  which  being  so  evil  appareled  in  the  dust  and 
cobweb  of  that  uncivil  age,  what  would  it  work  trimmed  in  the 
gorgeous  eloquence  of  Pindar  ? M  For  my  own  part,  I  am  so  pro- 
fessed an  admirer  of  this  antiquated  song,  that  I  shall  give  my 
reader  a  critique  upon  it  without  any  further  apology  for  so 
doing. 

The  greatest  modern  critics  have  laid  it  down  as  a  rule  that 
an  heroic  poem  should  be  founded  upon  some  important  precept 
of  morality  adapted  to  the  constitution  of  the  country  in  which 
the  poet  writes.  Homer  and  Virgil  have  formed  their  plans  in 
this  view.  As  Greece  was  a  collection  of  many  governments, 
who  suffered  very  much  among  themselves,  and  gave  the  Persian 
emperor,  who  was  their  common  enemy,  many  advantages  over 
them  by  their  mutual  jealousies  and  animosities,  Homer,  in  order 
to  establish  among  them  a  union  which  was  so  necessary  for 
their  safety,  grounds  his  poem  upon  the  discords  of  the  several 
Grecian  princes  who  were  engaged  in  a  confederacy  against  an 
Asiatic  prince,  and  the  several  advantages  which  the  enemy 
gained  by  such  discords.  At  the  time  the  poem  we  are  now 
treating  of  was  written,  the  dissensions  of  the  barons,  who  were 
then  so  many  petty  princes,  ran  very  high,  whether  they  quar- 
reled among  themselves  or  with  their  neighbors,  and  produced 
unspeakable  calamities  to  the  country.  The  poet,  to  deter  men 
from  such  unnatural  contentions,  describes  a  bloody  battle  and 
dreadful  scene  of  death,  occasioned  by  the  mutual  feuds  which 
reigned  in  the  families  of  an  English  and  Scotch  nobleman. 
That  he  designed  this  for  the  instruction  of  his  poem  we  may 
learn  from  his  four  last  lines,  in  which,  after  the  example  of  the 
modern  tragedians,  he  draws  from  it  a  precept  for  the  benefit  of 
his  readers:  — 

<(  God  save  the  king,  and  bless  the  land 
In  plenty,  joy,  and  peace ; 
And  grant  henceforth  that  foul  debate 
'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease. w 


44  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

The  next  point  observed  by  the  greatest  heroic  poets  hath 
been  to  celebrate  persons  and  actions  which  do  honor  to  their 
country:  thus  Virgil's  hero  was  the  founder  of  Rome;  Homer's 
a  prince  of  Greece;  and  for  this  reason  Valerius  Flaccus  and 
Statius,  who  were  both  Romans,  might  be  justly  derided  for  hav- 
ing chosen  the  expedition  of  the  Golden  Fleece  and  the  Wars  of 
Thebes  for  the  subjects  of  their  epic  writings. 

The  poet  before  us  has  not  only  found  out  a  hero  in  his  own 
country,  but  raises  the  reputation  of  it  by  several  beautiful  in- 
cidents. The  English  are  the  first  who  take  the  field  and  the 
last  who  quit  it.  The  English  bring  only  fifteen  hundred  to  the 
battle,  the  Scotch  two  thousand.  The  English  keep  the  field  with 
fifty-three,  the  Scotch  retire  with  fifty-five;  all  the  rest  on  each 
side  being  slain  in  battle.  But  the  most  remarkable  circumstance 
of  this  kind  is  the  different  manner  in  which  the  Scotch  and 
English  kings  receive  the  news  of  this  fight,  and  of  the  great 
men's  deaths  who  commanded  in  it:  — 


wThis  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 
Where  Scotland's  king  did  reign, 
That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 
Was  with  an  arrow  slain. 

<(<0  heavy  news!*  King  James  did  say, 
( Scotland  can  witness  be, 
I  have  not  any  captain  more 
Of  such  account  as  he.  > 

(<  Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came, 
Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 
Was  slain  in   Chevy  Chase. 

(( (  Now  God  be  with  him,*  said  our  king, 
<Sith  'twill  no  better  be, 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 
Five  hundred  good  as  he. 

<(  <  Yet  shall  not  Scot  nor  Scotland  say 
But  I  will  vengeance  take, 
And  be  revenged  on  them  all 
For  brave  Lord  Percy's  sake.* 

«This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed 
After  on  Humble-down, 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  45 

In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain, 
With  lords  of  great  renown. 

(<And  of  the  rest  of  small  account 
Did  many  thousands  die,M  etc. 

At  the  same  time  that  our  poet  shows  a  laudable  partiality  to 
his  countrymen,  he  represents  the  Scots  after  a  manner  not  un- 
becoming so  bold  and  brave  a  people:  — 

<(Earl  Douglas  on  a  milk-white  steed, 
Most  like  a  baron  bold, 
Rode  foremost  of  the  company, 
Whose  armor  shone  like  gold.8 

His  sentiments  and  actions  are  every  way  suitable  to  a  hero. 
(C  One  of  us  two,w  says  he,  (<  must  die:  I  am  an  earl  as  well  as 
yourself,  so  that  you  can  have  no  pretense  for  refusing  the  com- 
bat; however,"  says  he,  <(  it  is  pity,  and  indeed  would  be  a  sin, 
that  so  many  innocent  men  should  perish  for  our  sakes:  rather 
let  you  and  I  end  our  quarrel  in  single  fight w :  — 

« ( Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be, 
One  of  us  two  shall  die; 
I  know  thee  well,  an  earl  thou  art; 
Lord  Percy,  so  am  I. 

« ( But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  it  were 
And  great  offense  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  harmless  men, 
For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

« <  Let  thou  and  I  the  battle  try, 
And  set  our  men  aside,' 
<  Accurst  be  he,'  Lord  Percy  said, 
(By  whom  this  is  deny'd.'" 

When  these  brave  men  had  distinguished  themselves  in  the 
battle  and  in  single  combat  with  each  other,  in  the  midst  of  a 
generous  parley,  full  of  heroic  sentiments,  the  Scotch  earl  falls, 
and  with  his  dying  words  encourages  his  men  to  revenge  his 
death,  representing  to  them,  as  the  most  bitter  circumstance  of 
it,  that  his  rival  saw  him  fall :  — 

(<  With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 
Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart 
A  deep  and  deadly  blow. 


46  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

«Who  never  spoke  more  words  than  these, 
<  Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all, 
For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end, 
Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall.  >  n 

Merry  men,  in  the  language  of  those  times,  is  no  more  than 
a  cheerful  word  for  companions  and  fellow-soldiers.  A  passage 
in  the  eleventh  book  of  Virgil's  <(  iEneid }>  is  very  much  to  be 
admired,  where  Camilla,  in  her  last  agonies,  instead  of  weeping 
over  the  wound  she  had  received,  as  one  might  have  expected 
from  a  warrior  of  her  sex,  considers  only,  like  the  hero  of  whom 
we  are  now  speaking,  how  the  battle  should  be  continued  after 
her  death :  — 

Turn  sic  exspirans,  etc. —  Virg.  JEn.  XI.  820. 

A  gath'ring  mist  o'erclouds  her  cheerful  eyes; 
And  from  her  cheeks  the  rosy  color  flies, 
Then  turns  to  her,  whom  of  her  female  train 
She  trusted  most,  and  thus  she  speaks  with  pain: 
((Acca,  'tis  past!  he  swims  before  my  sight, 
Inexorable  Death,  and  claims  his  right. 
Bear  my  last  words  to  Turnus;  fly  with  speed 
And  bid  him  timely  to  my  charge  succeed; 
Repel  the  Trojans,  and  the  town  relieve: 
Farewell. »  —  Dry  den. 

Turnus  did  not  die  in  so  heroic  a  manner,  though  our  poet 
seems  to  have  had  his  eye  upon  Turnus's  speech  in  the  last 
verse : — 

(<  Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall. M 

Vicisti,  et  victum  tendere  ftalmas 
Ausonii  v  id  ere. 

—  Virg.  JEn.  XII.  936. 

The  Latin  chiefs  have  seen  me  beg  my  life. — Dry  den. 

Earl  Percy's  lamentation  over  his  enemy  is  generous,  beauti- 
ful, and  passionate.  I  must  only  caution  the  reader  not  to  let 
the  simplicity  of  the  style,  which  one  may  well  pardon  in  so  old 
a  poet,  prejudice  him  against  the  greatness  of  the  thought:  — 

«Then  leaving  life,  Earl  Percy  took 
The  dead  man  by  the  hand, 
And  said,  (Earl  Douglas,  for  thy  life 
Would  I  had  lost  my  land.* 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  47 

«<0  Christ!  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 
With  sorrow  for  thy  sake; 
For  sure  a  more  renowned  knight 
Mischance  did  never  take.^ 

That  beautiful  line,  "Taking  the  dead  man  by  the  hand,"  will 
put  the  reader  in  mind  of  yEneas's  behavior  towards  Lausus, 
whom  he  himself  had  slain  as  he  came  to  the  resue  of  his  aged 
father: — 

At  vera  ut  vultum  vidit  morientis  et  or  a, 

Or  a  modi's  Anchisiades  pal  lent  la  miris; 

Ingemuit,  miser  ans  graviter,  dextramque  tetendit. 

—  Virg.  Mvl.  X.  821. 

The  pious  prince  beheld  young  Lausus  dead; 

He  grieved,  he  wept,  then  grasped  his  hand  and  said, 

«Poor  hapless  youth!  what  praises  can  be  paid 

To  worth  so  great  ?  w  —  Dry  den. 

I  shall  take   another  opportunity  to    consider   the   other   parts 

of  this  old  song. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


CHEVY   CHASE 

Pendent  opera  interrupt  a. —  Virg.  2En.  IV.  88. 

The  works  unfinished  and  neglected  lie. 

In  my  last  Monday's  paper  I  gave  some  general  instances  of 
those   beautiful    strokes    which    please    the   reader   in   the    old 

song  of  (<  Chevy  Chase B ;  I  shall  here,  according  to  my 
promise,  be  more  particular,  and  show  that  the  sentiments  in 
that  ballad  are  extremely  natural  and  poetical,  and  full  of  the 
majestic  simplicity  which  we  admire  in  the  greatest  of  the  an- 
cient poets:  for  which  reason  I  shall  quote  several  passages  of 
it,  in  which  the  thought  is  altogether  the  same  with  what  we 
meet  in  several  passages  of  the  <(  ^Eneid n ;  not  that  I  would  in- 
fer from  thence  that  the  poet,  whoever  he  was,  proposed  to  him- 
self any  imitation  of  those  passages,  but  that  he  was  directed  to 
them  in  general  by  the  same  kind  of  poetical  genius  and  by  the 
same  copyings  after  nature. 

Had  this  old  song  been  filled  with  epigrammatical  turns  and 
points  of  wit,  it  might  perhaps  have  pleased  the  wrong  taste  of 


48  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

some  readers;  but  it  would  never  have  become  the  delight  of  the 
common  people,  nor  have  warmed  the  heart  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney- 
like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet;  it  is  only  nature  that  can  have  this 
effect,  and  please  those  tastes  which  are  the  most  unprejudiced, 
or  the  most  refined.  I  must,  however,  beg  leave  to  dissent  from 
so  great  an  authority  as  that  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  in  the  judg- 
ment which  he  has  passed  as  to  the  rude  style  and  evil  apparel 
of  this  antiquated  song;  for  there  are  several  parts  in  it  where 
not  only  the  thought  but  the  language  is  majestic,  and  the  num- 
bers sonorous;  at  least  the  apparel  is  much  more  gorgeous  than 
many  of  the  poets  made  use  of  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  as 
the  reader  will  see  in  several  of  the  following  quotations. 

What  can  be  greater  than  either  the  thought  or  the  expres- 
sion in  that  stanza :  — 

<(To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 
Earl  Percy  took  his  way; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 
The  hunting  of  that  day!w 

This  way  of  considering  the  misfortunes  which  this  battle  would 
bring  upon  posterity,  not  only  on  those  who  were  born  immedi- 
ately after  the  battle,  and  lost  their  fathers  in  it,  but  on  those 
also  who  perished  in  future  battles  which  took  their  rise  from 
this  quarrel  of  the  two  earls,  is  wonderfully  beautiful  and  con- 
formable to  the  way  of  thinking  among  the  ancient  poets. 

Audiet  pugnas  vitio  parentum 
Rara  jtiventus. 

—  Hor.  Od.  I.  2,  23. 

Posterity,  thinn'd  by  their  fathers'  crimes, 
Shall  read,  with  grief,  the  story  of  their  times. 

What  can  be  more  sounding  and  poetical,  or  resemble  more 
the  majestic  simplicity  of  the  ancients,  than  the  following  stan- 
zas?— 

w  The  stout  Earl  of  Northumberland 
A  vow  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 
Three  summer's  days  to  take. 

(<With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold, 
All  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  full  well,  in  time  of  need, 
To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  49 

«The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods 
The  nimble  deer  to  take, 
And  with  their  cries  the  hills  and  dales 
An  echo  shrill  did  make. w 

Vocat  ingenti  clamore  Cithceron, 
Taygetique  canes,  domitrixque  Epidaurus  equorum: 
Et  vox  assensu  nemorum  ingeminata  remugit. 

—  Virg-  Georg.  III.  43. 

Cithaeron  loudly  calls  me  to  my  way: 

Thy  hounds,  Taygetus,  open,  and  pursue  their  prey: 

High  Epidaurus  urges  on  my  speed, 

Famed  for  his  hills,  and  for  his  horses'  breed: 

From  hills  and  dales  the  cheerful  cries  rebound: 

For  Echo  hunts  along,  and  propagates  the  sound. 

— Dryden. 

<(  Lo,  yonder  doth  Earl  Douglas  come, 
His  men  in  armor  bright ; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears, 
All  marching  in  our  sight. 

(<A11  men  of  pleasant  Tividale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed,0  etc. 

The  country  of  the  Scotch  warrior,  described  in  these  two 
last  verses,  has  a  fine  romantic  situation,  and  affords  a  couple  of 
smooth  words  for  verse.  If  the  reader  compare  the  foregoing- 
six  lines  of  the  song  with  the  following  Latin  verses,  he  will  see 
how  much  they  are  written  in  the  spirit  of  Virgil :  — 

Adversi  campo  apparent:  hastasque  reductis 
Protendunt  longe  dextris,  et  spicula  vibrant:  — 
Quique  altitm  Praneste  viri.  quiqite  arva  Gabincz 
Junonis,  gelidumque  Anienem,  et  roscida  rivis 
Hernica  saxa  colunt :  — 

Qui  rosea  rura    Velini; 
Qui  Tetriccs  horrentis  rupes,  montemque  Severtim, 
Casperiamque  colunt,  Forulosque  et  flumen  Himelliz  : 
Qui  Tyberim  Fabarimque  bibunt. 

—  Virg.   iEn.   XI.   605;  VII.  682,  712. 

Advancing  in  a  line  they  couch  their  spears 

Praeneste  sends  a  chosen  band, 

With  those  who  plough  Saturnia's  Gabine  land: 
Besides  the  succors  which  cold  Anien  yields: 
The  rocks  of  Hernicus  — besides  a  band 
That  followed  from  Velinum's  dewy  land  — 
1—4 


50  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

And  mountaineers  that  from  Severas  came: 
And  from  the  craggy  cliffs  of  Tetrica; 
And  those  where  yellow  Tiber  takes  his  way, 
And  where  Himella's  wanton  waters  play: 
Casperia  sends  her  arms,  with  those  that  lie 
By  Fabaris,  and  fruitful  Foruli.  —  Dry  den. 

But  to  proceed:  — 

«  Earl  Douglas  on  a  milk-white  steed, 
Most  like  a  baron  bold, 
Rode  foremost  of  the  company, 
Whose  armor  shone  like  gold.w 

Tumus,  ut  antevolans  tardum  pracesserat  agmen,  etc. 

Vidisti,  quo  Turnus  equo,  quibus  ibat  in  armis 

Aureus  — 

—  Virg,  Mn.  IX.  47,  269. 

<(  Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows, 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true; 
At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent, 
Full  threescore  Scots  they  slew. 

(<  They  closed  full  fast  on  ev'ry  side, 
No  slackness  there  was  found; 
And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

«  With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 
Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart, 
A  deep  and  deadly  blow.** 

JEne&s  was  wounded  after  the  same  manner  by  an  unknown 
hand  in  the  midst  of  a  parley. 

Has  inter  voces,  media  inter  talia  verba, 

Ecce  viro  stridens  a/is  allapsa  sagitta  est, 

Incertum  qua  pulsa  manu  — 

—  Virg.  JEn.  XII.  318. 

Thus,  while  he  spake,  unmindful  of  defense, 
A  winged  arrow  struck  the  pious  prince ; 
But  whether  from  a  human  hand  it  came, 
Or  hostile  god,  is  left  unknown  by  fame. 

—  Dry  den. 

But  of  all  the  descriptive  parts  of  this  song,  there  are  none  more 
beautiful  than  the  four  following  stanzas,  which  have  a  great 
force  and  spirit  in  them,  and  are  filled  with  very  natural  circum- 
stances.     The  thought  in  the  third  stanza  was  never  touched  by 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  5 1 

any  other  poet,  and  is  such  a  one  as  would  have  shone  in  Homer 
or  in  Virgil:  — 

«So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  die, 
Whose  courage  none  could  stain ; 
An  English  archer  then  perceived 
The  noble  Earl  was  slain. 

<(He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand, 
Made  of  a  trusty  tree, 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 
Unto  the  head  drew  he. 

«  Against  Sir  Hugh  Montgomery 
So  right  his  shaft  he  set, 
The  gray-goose  wing  that  was  thereon 
In  his  heart-blood  was  wet. 

<(This  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 
Till  setting  of  the  sun ; 
For  when  they  rung  the  ev'ning  bell 
The  battle  scarce  was  done.w 

One  may  observe,  likewise,  that  in  the  catalogue  of  the  slain,  the 
author  has  followed  the  example  of  the  greatest  ancient  poets, 
not  only  in  giving  a  long  list  of  the  dead,  but  by  diversifying  it 
with  little  characters  of  particular  persons :  — 

<cAnd  with  Earl  Douglas  there  was  slain 
Sir  Hugh  Montgomery, 
Sir  Charles  Carrel,  that  from  the  field 
One  foot  would  never  fly. 

«Sir  Charles  Murrel  of  Ratcliff  too, 
His  sister's  son  was  he; 
Sir  David  Lamb  so  well  esteem'd, 
Yet  saved  could  not  be.** 

The  familiar  sound  in  these  names  destroys  the  majesty  of 
the  description;  for  this  reason  I  do  not  mention  this  part  of  the 
poem  but  to  show  the  natural  cast  of  thought  which  appears  in 
it,  as  the  two  last  verses  look  almost  like  a  translation  of  Virgil. 

Cadit  et  Ripheus  justissimus  unus 

Qui  fuit  in   Teucris  et  servantissimus  asqui. 

Diis  aliter  visum.  —  Virg-  ^^>  H.  426. 

Then  Ripheus  fell  in  the  unequal  fight, 
Just  of  his  word,  observant  of  the  right: 
Heav'n  thought  not  so.  —  Dryden. 


52  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

In  the  catalogue  of  the  English  who  fell,  Witherington's  be- 
havior is  in  the  same  manner  particularized  very  artfully,  as  the 
reader  is  prepared  for  it  by  that  account  which  is  given  of  him 
in  the  beginning  of  the  battle;  though  I  am  satisfied  your  little 
buffoon  readers,  who  have  seen  that  passage  ridiculed  in  (<  Hudi- 
bras,w  will  not  be  able  to  take  the  beauty  of  it;  for  which  reason 
I  dare  not  so  much  as  quote  it. 

«Then  stept  a  gallant  'squire  forth, 
Witherington  was  his  name, 
Who  said,  ( I  would  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry  our  king  for  shame, 

« ( That  e'er  my  captain  fought  on  foot, 
And  I  stood  looking  on.)w 

We  meet  with  the  same  heroic  sentiment  in  Virgil:  — 

Non  pudet,  O  Rutuli,  cunctis  pro  talibus  unam 
Object  are  animani?  nwnerone  an  viribus  csqut 
Non  sumus?  —  Virg.  JEn.  XII.  229. 

For  shame,  Rutilians,  can  you  bear  the  sight 
Of  one  exposed  for  all,  in  single  fight  ? 
Can  we  before  the  face  of  heav'n  confess 
Our  courage  colder,  or  our  numbers  less? 

—  Dryden. 

What  can  be  more  natural,  or  more  moving,  than  the  circum- 
stances in  which  he  describes  the  behavior  of  those  women  who 
had  lost  their  husbands  on  this  fatal  day  ? 

«Next  day  did  many  widows  come 
Their  husbands  to  bewail; 
They  wash'd  their  wounds  in  brinish  tears, 
But  all  would  not  prevail. 

« Their  bodies  bathed  in  purple  blood, 
They  bore  with  them  away; 
They  kiss'd  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 
When  they  were  clad  in  clay.w 

Thus  we  see  how  the  thoughts  of  this  poem,  which  naturally 
arise  from  the  subject,  are  always  simple,  and  sometimes  ex- 
quisitely noble;  that  the  language  is  often  very  sounding,  and 
that  the  whole  is  written  with  a  true  poetical  spirit. 

If  this  song  had  been  written  in  the  Gothic  manner,  which  is 
the  delight  of  all  our  little   wits,  whether  writers   or   readers,  it 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  53 

would  not  have  hit  the  taste  of  so  many  ages,  and  have  pleased 
the  readers  of  all  ranks  and  conditions.  I  shall  only  beg  pardon 
for  such  a  profusion  of  Latin  quotations,  which  I  should  not 
have  made  use  of,  but  that  I  feared  my  own  judgment  would 
have  looked  too  singular  on  such  a  subject,  had  not  I  supported 
it  by  the  practice  and  authority  of  Virgil. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


THE   VISION   OF   MIRZA 

Omnem,  quce  nitnc  obducta  tuenti 
Mortales  hebetat  visits  tibi.  et  humida  circtim 
Caligat,  nub  em  eripiain.  —  Virg.  JEn.  II.  604. 

The  cloud,  which,  intercepting  the  clear  light, 
Hangs  o'er  thy  eyes,  and  blunts  thy  mortal  sight, 
I  will  remove. 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo,  I  picked  up  several  Oriental 
manuscripts,  which  I  have  still  by  me.  Among  others  I 
met  with  one  entitled  "The  Visions  of  Mirza,w  which  I 
have  read  over  with  great  pleasure.  I  intend  to  give  it  to  the 
public  when  I  have  no  other  entertainment  for  them;  and  shall 
begin  with  the  first  Vision,  which  I  have  translated  word  for  word 
as  follows :  — 

<(  On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the  custom 
of  my  forefathers,  I  always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed  myself, 
and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I  ascended  the  high  hills  of 
Bagdad,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer. 
As  I  was  here  airing  myself  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into 
a  profound  contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human  life;  and  passing 
from  one  thought  to  another,  < Surely,'  said  I,  (man  is  but  a  shadow, 
and  life  a  dream.  >  Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards 
the  summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  discovered 
one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  musical  instrument  in  his 
hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him  he  applied  it  to  his  lips,  and  began  to 
play  upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was  exceeding  sweet,  and  wrought 
into  a  variety  of  tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and  alto- 
gether different  from  anything  I  had  ever  heard.  They  put  me  in 
mind  of  those  heavenly  airs  that  are  played  to  the  departed  souls 
of   good   men  upon  their  first  arrival    in   Paradise,  to  wear    out  the 


54  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

impressions  of  their  last  agonies,  and  qualify  them  for  the  pleasures 
of  that  happy  place.     My  heart  melted  away  in  secret  raptures. 

(<  I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before  me  was  the  haunt  of 
a  genius,  and  that  several  had  been  entertained  with  music  who  had 
passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that  the  musician  had  before  made 
himself  visible.  When  he  had  raised  my  thoughts  by  those  trans- 
porting airs  which  he  played,  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  his  conversa- 
tion, as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one  astonished,  he  beckoned  to  me, 
and,  by  the  waving  of  his  hand,  directed  me  to  approach  the  place 
where  he  sat.  I  drew  near  with  that  reverence  which  is  due  to  a 
superior  nature ;  and,  as  my  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the  cap- 
tivating strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet  and  wept.  The 
genius  smiled  upon  me  with  a  look  of  compassion  and  affability  that 
familiarized  him  to  my  imagination,  and  at  once  dispelled  all  the  fears 
and  apprehensions  with  which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted  me  from 
the  ground,  and,  taking  me  by  the  hand,  <Mirza,>  said  he,  (I  have 
heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies;  follow  me.' 

(<  He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  and,  placing 
me  on  the  top  of  it,  (  Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,1  said  he,  (and  tell  me 
what  thou  seest.*  (I  see,*  said  I,  (a  huge  valley,  and  a  prodigious 
tide  of  water  rolling  through  it.*  <  The  valley  that  thou  seest,*  said 
he,  ( is  the  Vale  of  Misery,  and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest  is 
part  of  the  great  tide  of  Eternity.*  ( What  is  the  reason,*  said  I, 
( that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a  thick  mist  at  one  end,  and  again 
loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other?*  (  What  thou  seest,*  said  he, 
(is  that  portion  of  Eternity  which  is  called  Time,  measured  out  by 
the  sun,  and  reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its  consum- 
mation. Examine  now,*  said  he,  ( this  sea  that  is  bounded  with  dark- 
ness at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest  in  it.*  (I  see  a 
bridge,*  said  I,  (  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide.*  (  The  bridge  thou 
seest,*  said  he,  (is  Human  Life;  consider  it  attentively.*  Upon  a  more 
leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  consisted  of  threescore  and  ten 
entire  arches,  with  several  broken  arches,  which,  added  to  those  that 
were  entire,  made  up  the  number  about  a  hundred.  As  I  was  count- 
ing the  arches,  the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  consisted  at  first 
of  a  thousand  arches;  but  that  a  great  flood  swept  away  the  rest, 
and  left  the  bridge  in  the  ruinous  condition  I  now  beheld  it.  ( But 
tell  me  further,*  said  he,  (  what  thou  discoverest  on  it.*  (I  see  mul- 
titudes of  people  passing  over  it,*  said  I,  (and  a  black  cloud  hanging 
on  each  end  of  it.*  As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of 
the  passengers  dropping  through  the  bridge  into  the  great  tide  that 
flowed  underneath  it;  and,  upon  further  examination,  perceived  there 
were  innumerable  trapdoors  that  lay  concealed  in  the  bridge,  which 
the  passengers  no  sooner  trod  upon,  but  they  fell  through  them  into 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  55 

the  tide,  and  immediately  disappeared.  These  hidden  pitfalls  were 
set  very  thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs  of  peo- 
ple no  sooner  broke  through  the  cloud,  but  many  of  them  fell  into 
them.  They  grew  thinner  towards  the  middle,  but  multiplied  and  lay 
closer  together  towards  the  end  of  the  arches  that  were  entire. 

« There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their  number  was  very 
small,  that  continued  a  kind  of  hobbling  march  on  the  broken  arches, 
but  fell  through  one  after  another,  being  quite  tired  and  spent  with 
so  long  a  walk. 

(<  I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of  this  wonderful 
structure,  and  the  great  variety  of  objects  which  it  presented.  My 
heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melancholy  to  see  several  dropping  un- 
expectedly in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  jollity,  and  catching  at  every- 
thing that  stood  by  them  to  save  themselves.  Some  were  looking  up 
towards  the  heavens  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
speculation  stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight.  Multitudes  were  very 
busy  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glittered  in  their  eyes  and  danced 
before  them;  but  often  when  they  thought  themselves  within  the 
reach  of  them,  their  footing  failed  and  down  they  sunk.  In  this  con- 
fusion of  objects,  I  observed  some  with  scimiters  in  their  hands,  who 
ran  to  and  fro  from  the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on  trap- 
doors which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which  they  might 
have  escaped  had  they  not  been  thus  forced  upon  them. 

<(The  genius,  seeing  me  indulge  myself  on  this  melancholy  pros- 
pect, told  me  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it.  (Take  thine  eyes  off 
the  bridge,*  said  he,  ( and  tell  me  if  thou  yet  seest  anything  thou 
dost  not  comprehend.*  Upon  looking  up,  (  What  mean,*  said  I,  ( those 
great  flights  of  birds  that  are  perpetually  hovering  about  the  bridge, 
and  settling  upon  it  from  time  to  time  ?  I  see  vultures,  harpies, 
ravens,  cormorants,  and,  among  many  other  feathered  creatures,  sev- 
eral little  winged  boys  that  perch  in  great  numbers  upon  the  middle 
arches.*  <  These,  *  said  the  genius,  <  are  Envy,  Avarice,  Superstition, 
Despair,  Love,  with  the  like  cares  and  passions  that  infest  human 
life.* 

(<I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh,  <Alas,*  said  I,  <man  was  made  in 
vain!  how  is  he  given  away  to  misery  and  mortality!  tortured  in  life, 
and  swallowed  up  in  death  !*  The  genius,  being  moved  with  compas- 
sion towards  me,  bade  me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect.  <Look 
no  more,*  said  he,  <on  man  in  the  first  stage  of  his  existence,  in  his 
setting  out  for  Eternity;  but  cast  thine  eye  on  that  thick  mist  into 
which  the  tide  bears  the  several  generations  of  mortals  that  fall  into 
it.*  I  directed  my  sight  as  I  was  ordered,  and,  whether  or  no  the 
good  genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural  force,  or  dissi- 
pated part  of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick  for  the  eye  to  pene- 


5  6  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

trate,  I  saw  the  valley  opening  at  the  further  end,  and  spreading 
forth  into  an  immense  ocean,  that  had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant  run- 
ning through  the  midst  of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts. 
The  clouds  still  rested  on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  dis- 
cover nothing  in  it;  but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean 
planted  with  innumerable  islands,  that  were  covered  with  fruits  and 
flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little  shining  seas  that  ran 
among  them.  I  could  see  persons  dressed  in  glorious  habits,  with 
garlands  upon  their  heads,  passing  among  the  trees,  lying  down  by 
the  sides  of  fountains,  or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers;  and  could  hear 
a  confused  harmony  of  singing  birds,  falling  waters,  human  voices, 
and  musical  instruments.  Gladness  grew  in  me  upon  the  discovery 
of  so  delightful  a  scene.  I  wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle  that  I 
might  fly  away  to  those  happy  seats;  but  the  genius  told  me  there 
was  no  passage  to  them,  except  through  the  gates  of  death  that  I 
saw  opening  every  moment  upon  the  bridge.  <  The  islands, >  said  he, 
<that  lie  so  fresh  and  green  before  thee,  and  with  which  the  whole 
face  of  the  ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou  canst  see,  are  more 
in  number  than  the  sands  on  the  seashore :  there  are  myriads  of 
islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  discoverest,  reaching  further 
than  thine  eye,  or  even  thine  imagination,  can  extend  itself.  These 
are  the  mansions  of  good  men  after  death,  who,  according  to  the 
degree  and  kinds  of  virtue  in  which  they  excelled,  are  distributed 
among  those  several  islands,  which  abound  with  pleasures  of  different 
kinds  and  degrees,  suitable  to  the  relishes  and  perfections  of  those 
who  are  settled  in  them;  every  island  is  a  paradise  accommodated 
to  its  respective  inhabitants.  Are  not  these,  O  Mirza,  habitations 
worth  contending  for  ?  Does  life  appear  miserable  that  gives  thee 
opportunities  of  earning  such  a  reward  ?  Is  death  to  be  feared  that 
will  convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  existence  ?  Think  not  man  was 
made  in  vain,  who  has  such  an  Eternity  reserved  for  him.*  I  gazed 
with  inexpressible  pleasure  on  these  happy  islands.  At  length,  said 
I,  (  Show  me  now,  I  beseech  thee,  the  secrets  that  lie  hid  under  those 
dark  clouds  which  cover  the  ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of 
adamant. }  The  genius  making  me  no  answer,  I  turned  about  to  ad- 
dress myself  to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had  left  me. 
I  then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had  been  so  long  contem- 
plating; but  instead  of  the  rolling  tide,  the  arched  bridge,  and  the 
happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  long  hollow  valley  of  Bagdad, 
with  oxen,  sheep,  and  camels  grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it.8 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  57 

THE   UNACCOUNTABLE   HUMOR    IN   WOMANKIND 
Parva   /eves   capiii7it   anitnos. —  Ovid.  Ars  Am.  i.  159. 
Light  minds  are  pleased  with  trifles. 

When  I  was  in  France,  I  used  to  gaze  with  great  astonish- 
ment at  the  splendid  equipages  and  party-colored  habits 
of  that  fantastic  nation.  I  was  one  day  in  particular 
contemplating  a  lady  that  sat  in  a  coach  adorned  with  gilded 
Cupids  and  finely  painted  with  the  Loves  of  Venus  and  Adonis. 
The  coach  was  drawn  by  six  milk-white  horses,  and  loaded  be- 
hind with  the  same  number  of  powdered  footmen.  Just  before 
the  lady  were  a  couple  of  beautiful  pages,  that  were  stuck  among 
the  harness,  and,  by  their  gay  dresses  and  smiling  features, 
looked  like  the  elder  brothers  of  the  little  boys  that  were  carved 
and  painted  in  every  corner  of  the  coach. 

The  lady  was  the  unfortunate  Cleanthe,  who  afterwards  gave 
an  occasion  to  a  pretty,  melancholy  novel.  She  had  for  several 
years  received  the  addresses  of  a  gentleman,  whom,  after  a  long 
and  intimate  acquaintance,  she  forsook  upon  the  account  of  this 
shining  equipage,  which  had  been  offered  to  her  by  one  of  great 
riches,  but  a  crazy  constitution.  The  circumstances  in  which  I 
saw  her  were,  it  seems,  the  disguises  only  of  a  broken  heart,  and 
a  kind  of  pageantry  to  cover  distress,  for  in  two  months  after, 
she  was  carried  to  her  grave  with  the  same  pomp  and  magnifi- 
cence, being  sent  thither  partly  by  the  loss  of  one  lover  and 
partly  by  the  possession  of  another. 

I  have  often  reflected  with  myself  on  this  unaccountable  hu- 
mor in  womankind,  of  being  smitten  with  everything  that  is 
showy  and  superficial,  and  on  the  numberless  evils  that  befall 
the  sex  from  this  light  fantastical  disposition.  I  myself  remem- 
ber a  young  lady  that  was  very  warmly  solicited  by  a  couple  of 
importunate  rivals,  who,  for  several  months  together,  did  all 
they  could  to  recommend  themselves,  by  complacency  of  behavior 
and  agreeableness  of  conversation.  At  length,  when  the  com- 
petition was  doubtful,  and  the  lady  undetermined  in  her  choice, 
one  of  the  young  lovers  very  luckily  bethought  himself  of  add- 
ing a  supernumerary  lace  to  his  liveries  which  had  so  good  an 
effect  that  he  married  her  the  very  week  after. 


58  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

The  usual  conversation  of  ordinary  women  very  much  cher- 
ishes this  natural  weakness  of  being  taken  with  outside  ap- 
pearance. Talk  of  a  new-married  couple,  and  you  immediately 
hear  whether  they  keep  their  coach  and  six,  or  eat  in  plate. 
Mention  the  name  of  an  absent  lady,  and  it  is  ten  to  one  but 
you  learn  something  of  her  gown  and  petticoat.  A  ball  is  a 
great  help  to  discourse,  and  a  birthday  furnishes  conversation 
for  a  twelvemonth  after.  A  furbelow  of  precious  stones,  a  hat 
buttoned  with  a  diamond,  a  brocade  waistcoat  or  petticoat,  are 
standing  topics.  In  short,  they  consider  only  the  drapery  of  the 
species,  and  never  cast  away  a  thought  on  those  ornaments  of 
the  mind  that  make  persons  illustrious  in  themselves  and  useful 
to  others.  When  women  are  thus  perpetually  dazzling  one  an- 
other's imaginations,  and  falling  their  heads  with  nothing  but 
colors,  it  is  no  wonder  that  they  are  more  attentive  to  the  super- 
ficial parts  of  life  than  the  solid  and  substantial  blessings  of  it. 
A  girl  who  has  been  trained  up  in  this  kind  of  conversation  is 
in  danger  of  every  embroidered  coat  that  comes  in  her  way.  A 
pair  of  fringed  gloves  may  be  her  ruin.  In  a  word,  lace  and 
ribands,  silver  and  gold  galloons,  with  the  like  glittering  gew- 
gaws, are  so  many  lures  to  women  of  weak  minds  or  low  educa- 
tions, and,  when  artificially  displayed,  are  able  to  fetch  down  the 
most  airy  coquette  from  the  wildest  of  her  flights  and  rambles. 

True  happiness  is  of  a  retired  nature,  and  an  enemy  to  pomp 
and  noise;  it  arises,  in  the  first  place,  from  the  enjoyment  of 
oneself,  and,  in  the  next,  from  the  friendship  and  conversation 
of  a  few  select  companions;  it  loves  shade  and  solitude,  and  nat- 
urally haunts  groves  and  fountains,  fields  and  meadows;  in  short, 
it  feels  everything  it  wants  within  itself,  and  receives  no  addition 
from  multitudes  of  witnesses  and  spectators.  On  the  contrary, 
false  happiness  loves  to  be  in  a  crowd,  and  to  draw  the  eyes  of 
the  world  upon  her.  She  does  not  receive  any  satisfaction  from 
the  applauses  which  she  gives  herself,  but  from  the  admiration  she 
raises  in  others.  She  flourishes  in  courts  and  palaces,  theatres  and 
assemblies,  and  has  no  existence  but  when  she  is  looked  upon. 

Aurelia,  though  a  woman  of  great  quality,  delights  in  the 
privacy  of  a  country  life,  and  passes  away  a  great  part  of  her 
time  in  her  own  walks  and  gardens.  Her  husband,  who  is  her 
bosom  friend  and  companion  in  her  solitudes,  has  been  in  love 
with  her  ever  since  he  knew  her.  They  both  abound  with  good 
sense,  consummate  virtue,  and  a  mutual  esteem;  and  are  a  per- 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  59 

petual  entertainment  to  one  another.  Their  family  is  under  so 
regular  an  economy,  in  its  hours  of  devotion  and  repast,  employ- 
ment and  diversion,  that  it  looks  like  a  little  commonwealth 
within  itself.  They  often  go  into  company  that  they  may  return 
with  the  greater  delight  to  one  another;  and  sometimes  live  in 
town,  not  to  enjoy  it  so  properly  as  to  grow  weary  of  it,  that 
they  may  renew  in  themselves  the  relish  of  a  country  life.  By 
this  means  they  are  happy  in  each  other,  beloved  by  their  chil- 
dren, adored  by  their  servants,  and  are  become  the  envy,  or 
rather  the  delight,  of  all  that  know  them. 

How  different  to  this  is  the  life  of  Fulvia!  She  considers  her 
husband  as  her  steward,  and  looks  upon  discretion  and  good 
housewifery  as  little  domestic  virtues  unbecoming  a  woman  of 
quality.  She  thinks  life  lost  in  her  own  family,  and  fancies  her- 
self out  of  the  world  when  she  is  not  in  the  ring,  the  playhouse, 
or  the  drawing-room.  She  lives  in  a  perpetual  motion  of  body 
and  restlessness  of  thought,  and  is  never  easy  in  any  one  place 
when  she  thinks  there  is  more  company  in  another.  The  missing 
of  an  opera  the  first  night  would  be  more  afflicting  to  her  than 
the  death  of  a  child.  She  pities  all  the  valuable  part  of  her  own 
sex,  and  calls  every  woman  of  a  prudent,  modest,  retired  life  a 
poor-spirited,  unpolished  creature.  What  a  mortification  would  it 
be  to  Fulvia,  if  she  knew  that  her  setting  herself  to  view  is  but 
exposing  herself,  and  that  she  grows  contemptible  by  being  con- 
spicuous ! 

I  cannot  conclude  my  paper  without  observing  that  Virgil  has 
very  finely  touched  upon  this  female  passion  for  dress  and  show, 
in  the  character  of  Camilla,  who,  though  she  seems  to  have 
shaken  off  all  the  other  weaknesses  of  her  sex,  is  still  described 
as  a  woman  in  this  particular.  The  poet  tells  us,  that  after  hav- 
ing made  a  great  slaughter  of  the  enemy,  she  unfortunately  cast 
her  eye  on  a  Trojan,  who  wore  an  embroidered  tunic,  a  beautiful 
coat  of  mail,  with  a  mantle  of  the  finest  purple.  (<A  golden 
bow,*  says  he,  <(  hung  upon  his  shoulder;  his  garment  was  buckled 
with  a  golden  clasp,  and  his  head  covered  with  a  helmet  of  the 
same  shining  metal."  The  Amazon  immediately  singled  out  this 
well-dressed  warrior,  being  seized  with  a  woman's  longing  for  the 
pretty  trappings  that  he  was  adorned  with :  — 

Totumque  incauta  per  agmen, 
Fcemineo  prcedcz  et  spoliorum  ardebat  amove. 

—  Virg.  ^£n.  XI.  781. 


60  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

So  greedy  was  she  bent 
On  golden  spoils,  and  on  her  prey  intent. 

—  Dry  den. 

This  heedless  pursuit  after  these  glittering  trifles,  the  poet, 
by  a  nice-concealed  moral,  represents  to  have  been  the  destruc- 
tion of  his  female  hero. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


«DOMINUS   REGIT   ME» 

Si  fractus  illabatur  orbis, 
Impavidum  ferient  ruince. 

—  Hor.  Car.  III.  3,  7. 

Should  the  whole  frame  of  nature  round  him  break, 

In  ruin  and  confusion  hurled, 
He,  unconcerned,  would  hear  the  mighty  crack, 

And  stand  secure  amidst  a  falling  world. 

—  Anon. 

Man,  considered  in  himself,  is  a  very  helpless  and  a  very 
wretched  being.  He  is  subject  every  moment  to  the 
greatest  calamities  and  misfortunes.  He  is  beset  with 
dangers  on  all  sides,  and  may  become  unhappy  by  numberless 
casualties  which  he  could  not  foresee,  nor  have  prevented  had  he 
foreseen  them. 

It  is  our  comfort,  while  we  are  obnoxious  to  so  many  acci- 
dents, that  we  are  under  the  care  of  One  who  directs  contingen- 
cies, and  has  in  his  hands  the  management  of  everything  that 
is  capable  of  annoying  or  offending  us;  who  knows  the  assistance 
we  stand  in  need  of,  and  is  always  ready  to  bestow  it  on  those 
who  ask  it  of  him. 

The  natural  homage  which  such  a  creature  owes  to  so  in- 
finitely wise  and  good  a  Being  is  a  firm  reliance  on  him  for  the 
blessings  and  conveniences  of  life,  and  an  habitual  trust  in  him 
for  deliverance  out  of  all  such  dangers  and  difficulties  as  may 
befall  us. 

The  man  who  always  lives  in  this  disposition  of  mind  has  not 
the  same  dark  and  melancholy  views  of  human  nature  as  he  who 
considers  himself  abstractedly  from  this  relation  to  the  Supreme 
Being.  At  the  same  time  that  he  reflects  upon  his  own  weak- 
ness and  imperfection,  he  comforts  himself  with  the  contempla- 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  6l 

tion  of  those  Divine  attributes  which  are  employed  for  his  safety 
and  his  welfare.  He  finds  his  want  of  foresight  made  up  by  the 
Omniscience  of  him  who  is  his  support.  He  is  not  sensible  of 
his  own  want  of  strength  when  he  knows  that  his  helper  is  al- 
mighty. In  short,  the  person  who  has  a  firm  trust  in  the  Su- 
preme Being  is  powerful  in  his  power,  wise  by  his  wisdom, 
happy  by  his  happiness.  He  reaps  the  benefit  of  every  Divine 
attribute,  and  loses  his  own  insufficiency  in  the  fullness  of  Infinite 
Perfection. 

To  make  our  lives  more  easy  to  us,  we  are  commanded  to 
put  our  trust  in  him,  who  is  thus  able  to  relieve  and  succor  us; 
the  Divine  Goodness  having  made  such  reliance  a  duty,  notwith- 
standing we  should  have  been  miserable  had  it  been  forbidden  us. 

Among  several  motives  which  might  be  made  use  of  to  rec- 
ommend this  duty  to  us,  I  shall  only  take  notice  of  these  that 
follow :  — 

The  first  and  strongest  is,  that  we  are  promised  he  will  not 
fail  those  who  put  their  trust  in  him. 

But  without  considering  the  supernatural  blessing  which  ac- 
companies this  duty,  we  may  observe  that  it  has  a  natural  tend- 
ency to  its  own  reward,  or,  in  other  words,  that  this  firm  trust 
and  confidence  in  the  great  Disposer  of  all  things  contributes 
very  much  to  the  getting  clear  of  any  affliction,  or  to  the  bear- 
ing it  manfully.  A  person  who  believes  he  has  his  succor  at 
hand,  and  that  he  acts  in  the  sight  of  his  friend,  often  exerts 
himself  beyond  his  abilities,  and  does  wonders  that  are  not  to  be 
matched  by  one  who  is  not  animated  with  such  a  confidence  of 
success.  I  could  produce  instances  from  history  of  generals  who, 
out  of  a  belief  that  they  were  under  the  protection  of  some  in- 
visible assistant,  did  not  only  encourage  their  soldiers  to  do  their 
utmost,  but  have  acted  themselves  beyond  what  they  would  have 
done  had  they  not  been  inspired  by  such  a  belief.  I  might  in 
the  same  manner  show  how  such  a  trust  in  the  assistance  of  an 
Almighty  Being  naturally  produces  patience,  hope,  cheerfulness, 
and  all  other  dispositions  of  the  mind  that  alleviate  those  calami- 
ties which  we  are  not  able  to  remove. 

The  practice  of  this  virtue  administers  great  comfort  to  the 
mind  of  man  in  times  of  poverty  and  affliction,  but  most  of  all 
in  the  hour  of  death.  When  the  soul  is  hovering  in  the  last  mo- 
ments of  its  separation,  when  it  is  just  entering  on  another  state 
of  existence,  to  converse  with  scenes,  and  objects,  and  companions, 


62  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

that  are  altogether  new,  what  can  support  her  under  such  trem- 
blings of  thought,  such  fear,  such  anxiety,  such  apprehensions, 
but  the  casting  of  all  her  cares  upon  him  who  first  gave  her 
being,  who  has  conducted  her  through  one  stage  of  it,  and  will 
be  always  with  her,  to  guide  and  comfort  her  in  her  progress 
through  eternity  ? 

David  has  very  beautifully  represented  this  steady  reliance  on 
God  Almighty  in  his  twenty-third  Psalm,  which  is  a  kind  of  pas- 
toral hymn,  and  filled  with  those  allusions  which  are  usual  in 
that  kind  of  writing.  As  the  poetry  is  very  exquisite,  I  shall 
present  my  reader  with  the  following  translation  of  it:  — 

(<  The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd's  care; 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye; 
My  noonday  walks  he  shall  attend, 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 

(<When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint, 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant; 
To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads 
My  weary,  wand'ring  steps  he  leads; 
Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow, 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

"Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread, 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread, 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill, 
For  thou,  O  Lord,  art  with  me  still ; 
Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid, 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

"Though  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way, 
Through  devious,  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  pains  beguile: 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile 
With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crowned, 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. » 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  63 

HOMER   AND   MILTON 
Cedite  Romani  scriptorcs,  ceciite  Graii.  —  Propert.   El.  34.,  Lib.  II.  65. 
Give  place,  ye  Roman,  and  ye  Grecian  wits. 

There  is  nothing  in  nature  so  irksome  as  general  discourses, 
especially  when  they  turn  chiefly  upon  words.  For  this 
reason  I  shall  waive  the  discussion  of  that  point  which  was 
started  some  years  since,  whether  Milton's  <(  Paradise  Lost w  may- 
be called  an  heroic  poem.  Those  who  will  not  give  it  that  title, 
may  call  it  (if  they  please)  a  divine  poem.  It  will  be  sufficient 
to  its  perfection,  if  it  have  in  it  all  the  beauties  of  the  highest 
kind  of  poetry;  and  as  for  those  who  allege  it  is  not  an  heroic 
poem,  they  advance  no  more  to  the  dimunition  of  it  than  if  they 
should  say  Adam  is  not  .Eneas,  nor  Eve   Helen. 

I  shall  therefore  examine  it  by  the  rules  of  epic  poetry,  and 
see  whether  it  fall  short  of  the  <(  Iliad  w  or  "^Eneid,"  in  the  beauties 
which  are  essential  to  that  kind  of  writing.  The  first  thing  to 
be  considered  in  an  epic  poem  is  the  fable,  which  is  perfect  or 
imperfect,  according  as  the  action  which  it  relates  is  more  or  less 
so.  This  action  should  have  three  qualifications  in  it.  First,  it 
should  be  but  one  action;  secondly,  it  should  be  an  entire  action; 
and,  thirdly,  it  should  be  a  great  action.  To  consider  the  action 
of  the  <c  Iliad, w  "^Eneid,"  and  ((  Paradise  Lost,"  in  these  three  sev- 
eral lights:  Homer,  to  preserve  the  unity  of  his  action,  hastens 
into  the  midst  of  things,  as  Horace  has  observed.  Had  he  gone 
up  to  Leda's  egg,  or  begun  much  later,  even  at  the  rape  of  Helen, 
or  the  investing  of  Troy,  it  is  manifest  that  the  story  of  the  poem 
would  have  been  a  series  of  several  actions.  He  therefore  opens 
his  poem  with  the  discord  of  his  princes,  and  artfully  interweaves, 
in  the  several  succeeding  parts  of  it,  an  account  of  everything 
material  which  relates  to  them,  and  had  passed  before  that  fatal 
dissension.  After  the  same  manner  ^Eneas  makes  his  first  ap- 
pearance in  the  Tyrrhene  seas,  and  within  sight  of  Italy,  because 
the  action  proposed  to  be  celebrated  was  that  of  his  settling  him- 
self in  Latium.  But  because  it  was  necessary  for  the  reader  to 
know  what  had  happened  to  him  in  the  taking  of  Troy,  and  in 
the  preceding  parts  of  his  voyage,  Virgil  makes  his  hero  relate 
it  by  way  of  episode  in  the  second  and  third  books  of  the  <c^Eneid,w 
the  contents  of  both  which  books  come  before  those  of  the   first 


64  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

book  in  the  thread  of  the  story,  though  for  preserving  this  unity 
of  action  they  follow  them  in  the  disposition  of  the  poem.  Mil- 
ton, in  imitation  of  these  two  great  poets,  opens  his  «  Paradise 
Lost  »  with  an  infernal  council  plotting  the  fall  of  man,  which  is 
the  action  he  proposed  to  celebrate;  and  as  for  those  great  ac- 
tions, which  preceded  in  point  of  time,  the  battle  of  the  angels, 
and  the  creation  of  the  world  (which  would  have  entirely  de- 
stroyed the  unity  of  the  principal  action,  had  he  related  them  in 
the  same  order  that  they  happened),  he  cast  them  into  the  fifth, 
sixth,  and  seventh  books,  by  way  of  episode  to  this  noble  poem. 

Aristotle  himself  allows  that  Homer  has  nothing  to  boast  of 
as  to  the  unity  of  his  fable,  though  at  the  same  time  that  great 
critic  and  philosopher  endeavors  to  palliate  this  imperfection  in 
the  Greek  poet,  by  imputing  it  in  some  measure  to  the  very 
nature  of  an  epic  poem.  Some  have  been  of  opinion  that  the 
w  JEneid  w  also  labors  in  this  particular,  and  has  episodes  which  may 
be  looked  upon  as  excrescences  rather  than  as  parts  of  the  ac- 
tion. On  the  contrary,  the  poem  which  we  have  now  under  our 
consideration  hath  no  other  episodes  than  such  as  naturally  arise 
from  the  subject,  and  yet  is  filled  with  such  a  multitude  of  as- 
tonishing incidents,  that  it  gives  us  at  the  same  time  a  pleasure 
of  the  greatest  variety  and  of  the  greatest  simplicity;  uniform  in 
its  nature,  though  diversified  in  the  execution. 

I  must  observe  also,  that  as  Virgil,  in  the  poem  which  was 
designed  to  celebrate  the  original  of  the  Roman  Empire,  has  de- 
scribed the  birth  of  its  great  rival,  the  Carthaginian  common- 
wealth, Milton,  with  the  like  art  in  his  poem  on  the  fall  of  man, 
has  related  the  fall  of  those  angels  who  are  his  professed  ene- 
mies. Besides  the  many  other  beauties  in  such  an  episode,  its 
running  parallel  with  the  great  action  of  the  poem  hinders  it 
from  breaking  the  unity  so  much  as  another  episode  would  have 
done,  that  had  not  so  great  an  affinity  with  the  principal  subject. 
In  short,  this  is  the  same  kind  of  beauty  which  the  critics  ad- 
mire in  «The  Spanish  Friar, »  or  «  The  Double  Discovery, »  where 
the  two  different  plots  look  like  counterparts  and  copies  of  one 
another. 

The  second  qualification  required  in  the  action  of  an  epic 
poem  is  that  it  should  be  an  entire  action.  An  action  is  entire 
when  it  is  complete  in  all  its  parts;  or,  as  Aristotle  describes  it, 
when  it  consists  of  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end.  Nothing 
should  go  before  it,  be  intermixed  with  it,  or  follow  after  it,  that 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  65 

is  not  related  to  it.  As,  on  the  contrary,  no  single  step  should 
be  omitted  in  that  just  and  regular  process  which  it  must  be 
supposed  to  take  from  its  original  to  its  consummation.  Thus 
we  see  the  anger  of  Achilles  in  its  birth,  its  continuance,  and 
effects;  and  ^neas's  settlement  in  Italy  carried  on  through  all 
the  oppositions  in  his  way  to  it,  both  by  sea  and  land.  The  ac- 
tion in  Milton  excels  (I  think)  both  the  former  in  this  particular: 
we  see  it  contrived  in  hell,  executed  upon  earth,  and  punished 
by  heaven.  The  parts  of  it  are  told  in  the  most  distinct  man- 
ner, and  grow  out  of  one  another  in  the  most  natural  method. 

The  third  qualification  of  an  epic  poem  is  its  greatness.  The 
anger  of  Achilles  was  of  such  consequence  that  it  embroiled  the 
kings  of  Greece,  destroyed  the  heroes  of  Troy,  and  engaged  all 
the  gods  in  factions.  iEneas's  settlement  in  Italy  produced  the 
Caesars  and  gave  birth  to  the  Roman  Empire.  Milton's  subject 
was  still  greater  than  either  of  the  former;  it  does  not  determine 
the  fate  of  single  persons  or  nations,  but  of  a  whole  species. 
The  united  powers  of  hell  are  joined  together  for  the  destruction 
of  mankind,  which  they  effected  in  part,  and  would  have  com- 
pleted had  not  Omnipotence  itself  interposed.  The  principal 
actors  are  man  in  his  greatest  perfection,  and  woman  in  her 
highest  beauty.  Their  enemies  are  the  fallen  angels;  the  Mes- 
siah their  friend,  and  the  Almighty  their  protector.  In  short, 
everything  that  is  great  in  the  whole  circle  of  being,  whether 
within  the  verge  of  nature,  or  out  of  it,  has  a  proper  part  assigned 
it  in  this  admirable  poem. 

In  poetry,  as  in  architecture,  not  only  the  whole,  but  the  prin- 
cipal members,  and  every  part  of  them,  should  be  great.  I  will  not 
presume  to  say  that  the  book  of  games  in  the  "iEneid,"  or  that 
in  the  (( Iliad, B  are  not  of  this  nature ;  nor  to  reprehend  Virgil's 
simile  of  the  top,  and  many  other  of  the  same  kind  in  the  (<  Iliad, w 
as  liable  to  any  censure  in  this  particular;  but  I  think  we  may 
say,  without  derogating  from  those  wonderful  performances,  that 
there  is  an  unquestionable  magnificence  in  every  part  of  (<  Para- 
dise Lost,"  and  indeed  a  much  greater  than  could  have  been 
formed  upon  any  pagan  system. 

But  Aristotle,  by  the  greatness  of  the  action,  does  not  only 
mean  that  it  should  be  great  in  its  nature,  but  also  in  its  dura- 
tion, or,  in  other  words,  that  it  should  have  a  due  length  in  it,  as 
well  as  what  we  properly  call  greatness.  The  just  measure  of 
this  kind  of  magnitude,  he  explains  by  the  following  similitude: 
1—5 


66  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

An  animal  no  bigger  than  a  mite  cannot  appear  perfect  to  the 
eye,  because  the  sight  takes  it  in  at  once,  and  has  only  a  con- 
fused idea  of  the  whole,  and  not  a  distinct  idea  of  all  its  parts; 
if,  on  the  contrary,  you  should  suppose  an  animal  of  ten  thousand 
furlongs  in  length,  the  eye  would  be  so  filled  with  a  single  part 
of  it  that  it  could  not  give  the  mind  an  idea  of  the  whole.  What 
these  animals  are  to  the  eye,  a  very  short  or  a  very  long  action 
would  be  to  the  memory.  The  first  would  be,  as  it  were,  lost 
and  swallowed  up  by  it,  and  the  other  difficult  to  be  contained 
in  it.  Homer  and  Virgil  have  shown  their  principal  art  in  this 
particular;  the  action  of  the  (<  Iliad  B  and  that  of  the  (<iEneidw  were 
in  themselves  exceeding  short,  but  are  so  beautifully  extended 
and  diversified  by  the  invention  of  episodes  and  the  machinery  of 
gods,  with  the  like  poetical  ornaments,  that  they  make  up  an 
agreeable  story,  sufficient  to  employ  the  memory  without  over- 
charging it.  Milton's  action  is  enriched  with  such  a  variety  of 
circumstances,  that  I  have  taken  as  much  pleasure  in  reading  the 
contents  of  his  books,  as  in  the  best-invented,  story  I  ever  met 
with.  It  is  possible  that  the  traditions  on  which  the  <(  Iliad w  and 
<(  ^Eneid  w  were  built  had  more  circumstances  in  them  than  the  his- 
tory of  the  fall  of  man,  as  it  is  related  in  Scripture.  Besides,  it 
was  easier  for  Homer  and  Virgil  to  dash  the  truth  with  fiction, 
as  they  were  in  no  danger  of  offending  the  religion  of  their 
country  by  it.  But  as  for  Milton,  he  had  not  only  a  very  few 
circumstances  upon  which  to  raise  his  poem,  but  was  also  obliged 
to  proceed  with  the  greatest  caution  in  everything  that  he  added 
out  of  his  own  invention.  And  indeed,  notwithstanding  all  the 
restraint  he  was  under,  he  has  filled  his  story  with  so  many  sur- 
prising incidents,  which  bear  so  close  an  analogy  with  what  is 
delivered  in  Holy  Writ,  that  it  is  capable  of  pleasing  the  most 
delicate  reader,  without  giving  offense  to  the  most  scrupulous. 

The  modern  critics  have  collected  from  several  hints  in  the 
(<  Iliad  w  and  (<  ^Eneid  B  the  space  of  time  which  is  taken  up  by  the 
action  of  each  of  those  poems;  but  as  a  great  part  of  Milton's 
story  was  transacted  in  regions  that  lie  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
sun  and  the  sphere  of  day,  it  is  impossible  to  gratify  the  reader 
with  such  a  calculation,  which  indeed  would  be  more  curious  than 
instructive;  none  of  the  critics,  either  ancient  or  modern,  having 
laid  down  rules  to  circumscribe  the  action  of  an  epic  poem  with 
any  determined  number  of  years,  days,  or  hours. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator  —  No.  267. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  67 


THE   MOUNTAIN    OF   MISERIES 

Qui  fit,  Maecenas,  ut  nemo,  quant  sibi  sortem 
Seu  ratio  dederit,  seu  fors  objecerit,  ill  A 
Contentus  vivat  :  laudet  diver sa  sequentes  ? 

—  Hor.  Sat.  i.,  Lib.  I.  1. 

Whence  is't,  Maecenas,  that  so  few  approve 
The  state  they're  placed  in,  and  incline  to  rove; 
Whether  against  their  will  by  fate  impos'd, 
Or  by  consent  and  prudent  choice  espous'd  ? 

—  Horneck. 

It  is  a  celebrated  thought  of  Socrates,  that  if  all  the  misfor- 
tunes of   mankind  were  cast  into  a  public  stock,  in  order  to 

be  equally  distributed  among  the  whole  species,  those  who  now 
think  themselves  the  most  unhappy  would  prefer  the  share  they 
are  already  possessed  of  before  that  which  would  fall  to  them 
by  such  a  division.  Horace  has  carried  this  thought  a  great  deal 
further  in  the  motto  of  my  paper,  which  implies  that  the  hard- 
ships or  misfortunes  we  lie  under  are  more  easy  to  us  than  those 
of  any  other  person  would  be,  in  case  we  could  change  conditions 
with  him. 

As  I  was  ruminating  upon  these  two  remarks,  and  seated  in 
my  elbow  chair,  I  insensibly  fell  asleep;  when,  on  a  sudden,  me- 
thought  there  was  a  proclamation  made  by  Jupiter  that  every 
mortal  should  bring  in  his  griefs  and  calamities,  and  throw  them 
together  in  a  heap.  There  was  a  large  plain  appointed  for  this 
purpose.  I  took  my  stand  in  the  centre  of  it,  and  saw  with  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  the  whole  human  species  marching  one 
after  another,  and  throwing  down  their  several  loads,  which  im- 
mediately grew  up  into  a  prodigious  mountain,  that  seemed  to 
rise  above  the  clouds. 

There  was  a  certain  lady  of  a  thin  airy  shape,  who  was  very 
active  in  this  solemnity.  She  carried  a  magnifying  glass  in  one 
of  her  hands,  and  was  clothed  in  a  loose  flowing  robe,  embroid- 
ered with  several  figures  of  fiends  and  spectres,  that  discovered 
themselves  in  a  thousand  chimerical  shapes,  as  her  garment  hov- 
ered in  the  wind.  There  was  something  wild  and  distracted  in 
her  looks.  Her  name  was  Fancy.  She  led  up  every  mortal  to 
the  appointed  place,  after  having  very  officiously  assisted  him  in 
making  up  his  pack,  and  laying  it  upon  his  shoulders.  My  heart 
melted    within    me    to    see    my    fellow-creatures    groaning    under 


68  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

their  respective  burdens,  and  to  consider  that  prodigious  bulk  of 
human  calamities  which  lay  before  me. 

There  were,  however,  several  persons  who  gave  me  great 
diversion  upon  this  occasion.  I  observed  one  bringing  in  a  far- 
del very  carefully  concealed  under  an  old  embroidered  cloak, 
which,  upon  his  throwing  it  into  the  heap,  I  discovered  to  be 
Poverty.  Another,  after  a  great  deal  of  puffing,  threw  down  his 
luggage,  which,  upon  examining,  I  found  to  be  his  wife. 

There  were  multitudes  of  lovers  saddled  with  very  whimsical 
burdens  composed  of  darts  and  flames;  but,  what  was  very  odd, 
though  they  sighed  as  if  their  hearts  would  break  under  these 
bundles  of  calamities,  they  could  not  persuade  themselves  to  cast 
them  into  the  heap,  when  they  came  up  to  it;  but,  after  a  few 
faint  efforts,  shook  their  heads,  and  marched  away  as  heavy 
laden  as  they  came.  I  saw  multitudes  of  old  women  throw 
down  their  wrinkles,  and  several  young  ones  who  stripped  them- 
selves of  a  tawny  skin.  There  were  very  great  heaps  of  red 
noses,  large  lips,  and  rusty  teeth.  The  truth  of  it  is,  I  was  sur- 
prised to  see  the  greatest  part  of  the  mountain  made  up  of  bod- 
ily deformities.  Observing  one  advancing  towards  the  heap  with 
a  larger  cargo  than  ordinary  upon  his  back,  I  found  upon  his 
near  approach  that  it  was  only  a  natural  hump,  which  he  dis- 
posed of,  with  great  joy  of  heart,  among  this  collection  of  human 
miseries.  There  were  likewise  distempers  of  all  sorts,  though  I 
could  not  but  observe  that  there  were  many  more  imaginary  than 
real.  One  little  packet  I  could  not  but  take  notice  of,  which  was 
a  complication  of  all  the  diseases  incident  to  human  nature,  and 
was  in  the  hand  of  a  great  many  fine  people:  this  was  called  the 
spleen.  But  what  most  of  all  surprised  me  was,  a  remark  I 
made,  that  there  was  not  a  single  vice  or  folly  thrown  into  the 
whole  heap;  at  which  I  was  very  much  astonished,  having  con- 
cluded within  myself  that  every  one  would  take  this  opportunity 
of  getting  rid  of  his  passions,  prejudices,   and  frailties. 

I  took  notice  in  particular  of  a  very  profligate  fellow,  who  I 
did  not  question  came  loaded  with  his  crimes;  biit  upon  search- 
ing into  his  bundle  I  found  that  instead  of  throwing  his  guilt 
from  him,  he  had  only  laid  down  his  memory.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  another  worthless  rogue,  who  flung  away  his  modesty 
instead  of  his  ignorance. 

When  the  whole  race  of  mankind  had  thus  cast  their  burdens, 
the   phantom   which   had  been   so   busy   on   this   occasion,   seeing 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  69 

me  an  idle  Spectator  of  what  had  passed,  approached  towards 
me.  I  grew  uneasy  at  her  presence,  when  of  a  sudden  she  held 
her  magnifying  glass  full  before  my  eyes.  I  no  sooner  saw  my 
face  in  it,  but  was  startled  at  the  shortness  of  it,  which  now  ap- 
peared to  me  in  its  utmost  aggravation.  The  immoderate  breadth 
of  the  features  made  me  very  much  out  of  humor  with  my  own 
countenance,  upon  which  I  threw  it  from  me  like  a  mask.  It 
happened  very  luckily  that  one  who  stood  by  me  had  just  before 
thrown  down  his  visage,  which  it  seems  was  too  long  for  him. 
It  was  indeed  extended  to  a  most  shameful  length;  I  believe  the 
very  chin  was,  modestly  speaking,  as  long  as  my  whole  face. 
We  had  both  of  us  an  opportunity  of  mending  ourselves;  and  all 
the  contributions  being  now  brought  in,  every  man  was  at  liberty 
to  exchange  his  misfortunes  for  those  of  another  person.  But  as 
there  arose  many  new  incidents  in  the  sequel  of  my  vision,  I 
shall  reserve  them  for  the  subject  of  my  next  paper. 


Quid  causes  est,  meritb  gum  Mis  Jupiter  ambas 
Iratus  buccas  inflct,  neque  se  fore  posthac 
Tarn  facilem  die  at,  votis  tit  prcebeat  ciurem  ? 

—  Hor.  Sat.  i.,  Lib.  I.,  20. 

Were  it  not  just  that  Jove,  provok'd  to  heat, 
Should  drive  these  triflers  from  the  hallow'd  seat, 
And  unrelenting  stand  when  they  entreat  ? 

—  Horneck. 

In  my  last  paper  I  gave  my  reader  a  sight  of  that  mountain  of 
miseries  which  was  made  up   of  those  several   calamities  that 

afflict  the  minds  of  men.  I  saw  with  unspeakable  pleasure 
the  whole  species  thus  delivered  from  its  sorrows;  though  at  the 
same  time,  as  we  stood  round  the  heap,  and  surveyed  the  several 
materials  of  which  it  was  composed,  there  was  scarcely  a  mortal 
in  this  vast  multitude,  who  did  not  discover  what  he  thought 
the  pleasures  of  life,  and  wondered  how  the  owners  of  them  ever 
came  to  look  upon  them  as  burdens  and  grievances. 

As  we  were  regarding  very  attentively  this  confusion  of  mis- 
eries, this  chaos  of  calamity,  Jupiter  issued  out  a  second  procla- 
mation, that  every  one  was  now  at  liberty  to  exchange  his 
affliction,  and  to  return  to  his  habitation  with  any  such  other 
bundle  as  should  be  delivered  to  him. 


■jO  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

Upon  this,  Fancy  began  again  to  bestir  herself,  and,  parceling 
out  the  whole  heap  with  incredible  activity,  recommended  to 
every  one  his  particular  packet.  The  hurry  and  confusion  at 
this  time  was  not  to  be  expressed.  Some  observations,  which  I 
made  upon  this  occasion,  I  shall  communicate  to  the  public.  A 
venerable  gray-headed  man,  who  had  laid  down  the  colic,  and  who, 
I  found,  wanted  an  heir  to  his  estate,  snatched  up  an  undutiful  son 
that  had  been  thrown  into  the  heap  by  his  angry  father.  The 
graceless  youth,  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  pulled  the  old 
gentleman  by  the  beard,  and  had  liked  to  have  knocked  his 
brains  out;  so  that  meeting  the  true  father,  who  came  towards 
him  with  a  fit  of  the  gripes,  he  begged  him  to  take  his  son 
again,  and  give  him  back  his  colic;  but  they  were  incapable 
either  of  them  to  recede  from  the  choice  they  had  made.  A 
poor  galley  slave,  who  had  thrown  down  his  chains,  took  up  the 
gout  in  their  stead,  but  made  such  wry  faces,  that  one  might 
easily  perceive  he  was  no  great  gainer  by  the  bargain.  It  was 
pleasant  enough  to  see  the  several  exchanges  that  were  made, 
for  sickness  against  poverty,  hunger  against  want  of  appetite,  and 
care  against  pain. 

The  female  world  were  very  busy  among  themselves  in  bar- 
tering for  features:  one  was  trucking  a  lock  of  gray  hairs  for  a 
carbuncle,  another  was  making  over  a  short  waist  for  a  pair  of 
round  shoulders,  and  a  third  cheapening  a  bad  face  for  a  lost 
reputation;  but  on  all  these  occasions  there  was  not  one  of  them 
who  did  not  think  the  new  blemish,  as  soon  as  she  had  got  it 
into  her  possession,  much  more  disagreeable  than  the  old  one.  I 
made  the  same  observation  on  every  other  misfortune  or  calamity 
which  every  one  in  the  assembly  brought  upon  himself  in  lieu 
of  what  he  had  parted  with.  Whether  it  be  that  all  the  evils 
which  befall  us  are  in  some  measure  suited  and  proportioned  to 
our  strength,  or  that  every  evil  becomes  more  supportable  by  our 
being  accustomed  to  it,  I  shall  not  determine. 

I  could  not  from  my  heart  forbear  pitying  the  poor  hump- 
backed gentleman  mentioned  in  the  former  paper,  who  went  off 
a  very  well-shaped  person  with  a  stone  in  his  bladder;  nor  the 
fine  gentleman  who  had  struck  up  this  bargain  with  him,  that 
limped  through  a  whole  assembly  of  ladies,  who  used  to  admire 
him,  with  a  pair  of  shoulders  peeping  over  his  head. 

I  must  not  omit  my  own  particular  adventure.  My  friend 
with  a  long  visage  had  no  sooner  taken  upon  him  my  short  face, 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  7 1 

but  he  made  such  a  grotesque  figure  in  it  that  as  I  looked  upon 
him  I  could  not  forbear  laughing  at  myself,  insomuch  that  I  put 
my  own  face  out  of  countenance.  The  poor  gentleman  was  so 
sensible  of  the  ridicule  that  I  found  he  was  ashamed  of  what  he 
had  done;  on  the  other  side,  I  found  that  I  myself  had  no  great 
reason  to  triumph,  for  as  I  went  to  touch  my  forehead  I  missed 
the  place,  and  clapped  my  finger  upon  my  upper  lip.  Besides, 
as  my  nose  was  exceeding  prominent,  I  gave  it  two  or  three  un- 
lucky knocks  as  I  was  playing  my  hand  about  my  face,  and  aim- 
ing at  some  other  part  of  it.  I  saw  two  other  gentlemen  by 
me  who  were  in  the  same  ridiculous  circumstances.  These  had 
made  a  foolish  swop  between  a  couple  of  thick  bandy  legs  and 
two  long  trapsticks  that  had  no  calves  to  them.  One  of  these 
looked  like  a  man  walking  upon  stilts,  and  was  so  lifted  up  into 
the  air,  above  his  ordinary  height,  that  his  head  turned  round 
with  it;  while  the  other  made  such  awkward  circles,  as  he  at- 
tempted to  walk,  that  he  scarcely  knew  how  to  move  forward 
upon  his  new  supporters.  Observing  him  to  be  a  pleasant  kind 
of  fellow,  I  stuck  my  cane  in  the  ground,  and  told  him  I  would 
lay  him  a  bottle  of  wine  that  he  did  not  march  up  to  it  on  a 
line,  that  I  drew  for  him,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

The  heap  was  at  last  distributed  among  the  two  sexes,  who 
made  a  most  piteous  sight,  as  they  wandered  up  and  down  under 
the  pressure  of  their  several  burdens.  The  whole  plain  was 
filled  with  murmurs  and  complaints,  groans  and  lamentations. 
Jupiter  at  length,  taking  compassion  on  the  poor  mortals,  ordered 
them  a  second  time  to  lay  down  their  loads,  with  a  design  to 
give  every  one  his  own  again.  They  discharged  themselves  with 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure;  after  which,  the  phantom  who  had  led 
them  into  such  gross  delusions  was  commanded  to  disappear. 
There  was  sent  in  her  stead  a  goddess  of  a  quite  different  fig- 
ure; her  motions  were  steady  and  composed,  and  her  aspect  seri- 
ous but  cheerful.  She  every  now  and  then  cast  her  eyes  towards 
heaven,  and  fixed  them  upon  Jupiter;  her  name  was  Patience. 
She  had  no  sooner  placed  herself  by  the  Mount  of  Sorrows,  but, 
what  I  thought  very  remarkable,  the  whole  heap  sunk  to  such  a 
degree  that  it  did  not  appear  a  third  part  so  big  as  it  was  be- 
fore. She  afterwards  returned  every  man  his  own  proper  calam- 
ity, and,  teaching  him  how  to  bear  it  in  the  most  commodious 
manner,   he    marched    off    with    it    contentedly,   being    very    well 


•j 2  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

pleased   that   he  had  not  been  left   to  his   own  choice  as  to  the 
kind  of  evils  which  fell  to  his  lot. 

Besides  the  several  pieces  of  morality  to  be  drawn  out  of  this 
Vision,  I  learnt  from  it  never  to  repine  at  my  own  misfortunes, 
or  to  envy  the  happiness  of  another,  since  it  is  impossible  for 
any  man  to  form  a  right  judgment  of  his  neighbor's  sufferings; 
for  which  reason  also  I  have  determined  never  to  think  too 
lightly  of  another's  complaints,  but  to  regard  the  sorrows  of  my 
fellow-creatures  with  sentiments  of  humanity  and  compassion. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


STEELE    INTRODUCES   SIR   ROGER   DE    COVERLEY* 

Hcbc  alii  sex, 

Et  plures,  uno  conclamant  ore  — 

—Juv.  Sat.  VII.  167. 

Six  more  at  least  join  their  consenting  voice. 

The  first  of  our  society  is  a  gentleman  of  Worcestershire,  of  an 
ancient  descent,  a  baronet.  His  name  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 
His  great-grandfather  was  inventor  of  that  famous  country 
dance  which  is  called  after  him.  All  who  know  that  shire  are 
very  well  acquainted  with  the  parts  and  merits  of  Sir  Roger. 
He  is  a  gentleman  that  is  very  singular  in  his  behavior,  but  his 
singularities  proceed  from  his  good  sense,  and  are  contradictions 
to  the  manners  of  the  world,  only  as  he  thinks  the  world  is  in 
the  wrong.  However,  this  humor  creates  him  no  enemies,  for  he 
does  nothing  with  sourness  or  obstinacy;  and  his  being  uncon- 
fined  to  modes  and  forms  makes  him  but  the  readier  and  more 
capable  to  please  and  oblige  all  who  know  him.  When  he  is  in 
town  he  lives  in  Soho  Square.  It  is  said  he  keeps  himself  a 
bachelor  by  reason  he  was  crossed  in  love  by  a  perverse  beauti- 
ful widow  of  the  next  county  to  him.  Before  this  disappoint- 
ment Sir  Roger  was  what  you  call  a  fine  gentleman,  had  often 
supped  with  my  Lord  Rochester  and  Sir  George  Etherege,  fought 
a  duel  upon  his   first  coming  to   town,  and   kicked  bully  Dawson 

*The  character  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  introduced  by  Steele  in  the 
second  number  of  the  Spectator,  was  at  once  appropriated  by  Addison.  The 
essay  by  Steele  is  given  here  to  make  those  which  follow  from  Addison 
more  intelligible  in  their  connection  with  it. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  73 

in  a  public  coffeehouse  for  calling  him  youngster.  But  being 
ill-used  by  the  above-mentioned  widow,  he  was  very  serious  for 
a  year  and  a  half;  and  though,  his  temper  being  naturally  jovial, 
he  at  last  got  over  it,  he  grew  careless  of  himself,  and  never 
dressed  afterwards.  He  continues  to  wear  a  coat  and  doublet 
of  the  same  cut  that  were  in  fashion  at  the  time  of  his  repulse, 
which,  in  his  merry  humors,  he  tells  us  has  been  in  and  out 
twelve  times  since  he  first  wore  it.  It  is  said  Sir  Roger  grew 
humble  in  his  desires  after  he  had  forgot  his  cruel  beauty,  inso- 
much that  it  is  reported  he  has  frequently  offended  in  point  of 
chastity  with  beggars  and  gipsies;  but  this  is  looked  upon  by 
his  friends  rather  as  matter  of  raillery  than  truth.  He  is  now 
in  his  fifty-sixth  year,  cheerful,  gay,  and  hearty;  keeps  a  good 
house  both  in  town  and  country;  a  great  lover  of  mankind;  but 
there  is  such  a  mirthful  cast  in  his  behavior  that  he  is  rather 
beloved  than  esteemed.  His  tenants  grow  rich,  his  servants  look 
satisfied,  all  the  young  women  profess  love  to  him,  and  the  young 
men  are  glad  of  his  company.  When  he  comes  into  a  house  he 
calls  the  servants  by  their  names  and  talks  all  the  way  up  stairs 
to  a  visit.  I  must  not  omit  that  Sir  Roger  is  a  justice  of  the 
quorum;  that  he  fills  the  chair  at  a  quarter-session  with  great 
abilities,  and  three  months  ago  gained  universal  applause  by  ex- 
plaining a  passage  in  the  Game  Act. 

The  gentleman  next  in  esteem  and  authority  among  us  is  an- 
other bachelor,  who  is  a  member  of  the  Inner  Temple,  a  man  of 
great  probity,  wit,  and  understanding;  but  he  has  chosen  his 
place  of  residence  rather  to  obey  the  direction  of  an  old  humor- 
some  father,  than  in  pursuit  of  his  own  inclinations.  He  was 
placed  there  to  study  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  is  the  most 
learned  of  any  of  the  house  in  those  of  the  stage.  Aristotle  and 
Longinus  are  much  better  understood  by  him  than  Littleton  or 
Coke.  The  father  sends  up  every  post  questions  relating  to  mar- 
riage articles,  leases,  and  tenures,  in  the  neighborhood;  all  which 
questions  he  agrees  with  an  attorney  to  answer  and  take  care  of 
in  the  lump.  He  is  studying  the  passions  themselves  when  he 
should  be  inquiring  into  the  debates  among  men  which  arise 
from  them.  He  knows  the  argument  of  each  of  the  orations  of 
Demosthenes  and  Tully,  but  not  one  case  in  the  reports  of  our 
own  courts.  No  one  ever  took  him  for  a  fool;  but  none,  except 
his  intimate  friends,  know  he  has  a  great  deal  of  wit.     This  turn 


74  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

makes  him  at  once  both  disinterested  and  agreeable.  As  few  of 
his  thoughts  are  drawn  from  business,  they  are  most  of  them  fit 
for  conversation.  His  taste  for  books  is  a  little  too  just  for  the 
age  he  lives  in;  he  has  read  all,  but  approves  of  very  few.  His 
familiarity  with  the  customs,  manners,  actions,  and  writings  of 
the  Ancients  makes  him  a  very  delicate  observer  of  what  occurs 
to  him  in  the  present  world.  He  is  an  excellent  critic,  and  the 
time  of  the  play  is  his  hour  of  business;  exactly  at  five  he  passes 
through  New- Inn,  crosses  through  Russel-court,  and  takes  a  turn 
at  Will's  till  the  play  begins;  he  has  his  shoes  rubbed  and  his 
periwig  powdered  at  the  barber's  as  you  go  into  the  Rose.  It  is 
for  the  good  of  the  audience  when  he  is  at  a  play,  for  the  actors 
have  an  ambition  to  please  him. 

The  person  of  next  consideration  is  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  a 
merchant  of  great  eminence  in  the  city  of  London;  a  person  of 
indefatigable  industry,  strong  reason,  and  great  experience.  His 
notions  of  trade  are  noble  and  generous,  and  (as  every  rich  man 
has  usually  some  sly  way  of  jesting,  which  would  make  no  great 
figure  were  he  not  a  rich  man)  he  calls  the  sea  the  British  Com- 
mon. He  is  acquainted  with  commerce  in  all  its  parts,  and  will 
tell  you  that  it  is  a  stupid  and  barbarous  way  to  extend  domin- 
ion by  arms;  for  true  power  is  to  be  got  by  arts  and  industry. 
He  will  often  argue,  that  if  this  part  of  our  trade  were  well 
cultivated,  we  should  gain  from  one  nation;  and  if  another,  from 
another  I  have  heard  him  prove,  that  diligence  makes  more  last- 
ing acquisitions  than  valor,  and  that  sloth  has  ruined  more  na- 
tions than  the  sword.  He  abounds  in  several  frugal  maxims, 
amongst  which  the  greatest  favorite  is,  <(A  penny  saved  is  a 
penny  got."  A  general  trader  of  good  sense  is  pleasanter  com- 
pany than  a  general  scholar;  and  Sir  Andrew  having  a  natural 
unaffected  eloquence,  the  perspicuity  of  his  discourse  gives  the 
same  pleasure  that  wit  would  in  another  man.  He  has  made  his 
fortune  himself;  and  says  that  England  may  be  richer  than  other 
kingdoms,  by  as  plain  methods  as  he  himself  is  richer  than  other 
men;  though  at  the  same  time  I  can  say  this  of  him  that  there 
is  not  a  point  in  the  compass  but  blows  home  a  ship  in  which 
he  is  an  owner. 

Next  to  Sir  Andrew  in  the  clubroom  sits  Captain  Sentry,  a 
gentleman  of  great  courage,  good  understanding,  but  invincible 
modesty.     He   is   one    of   those    that   deserve   very  well,  but   are 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  75 

very  awkward  at  putting  their  talents  within  the  observation  of 
such  as  should  take  notice  of  them.  He  was  some  years  a  cap- 
tain, and  behaved  himself  with  great  gallantry  in  several  engage- 
ments and  at  several  sieges;  but  having  a  small  estate  of  his 
own,  and  being  next  heir  to  Sir  Roger,  he  has  quitted  a  way  of 
life  in  which  no  man  can  rise  suitably  to  his  merit,  who  is  not 
something  of  a  courtier  as  well  as  a  soldier.  I  have  heard  him 
often  lament  that  in  a  profession  where  merit  is  placed  in  so 
conspicuous  a  view,  impudence  should  get  the  better  of  modesty. 
When  he  has  talked  to  this  purpose,  I  never  heard  him  make  a 
sour  expression,  but  frankly  confess  that  he  left  the  world,  be- 
cause he  was  not  fit  for  it.  A  strict  honesty  and  an  even  regular 
behavior  are  in  themselves  obstacles  to  him  that  must  press 
through  crowds,  who  endeavor  at  the  same  end  with  himself,  the 
favor  of  a  commander.  He  will  however  in  his  way  of  talk  ex- 
cuse generals  for  not  disposing  according  to  men's  desert,  or 
inquiring  into  it;  for,  says  he,  that  great  man  who  has  a  mind 
to  help  me  has  as  many  to  break  through  to  come  at  me  as  I 
have  to  come  at  him :  therefore  he  will  conclude,  that  the  man 
who  would  make  a  figure,  especially  in  a  military  way,  must  get 
over  all  false  modesty,  and  assist  his  patron  against  the  impor- 
tunity of  other  pretenders,  by  a  proper  assurance  in  his  own  vin- 
dication. He  says  it  is  a  civil  cowardice  to  be  backward  in 
asserting  what  you  ought  to  expect,  as  it  is  a  military  fear  to  be 
slow  in  attacking  when  it  is  your  duty.  With  this  candor  does 
the  gentleman  speak  of  himself  and  others.  The  same  frankness 
runs  through  all  his  conversation.  The  military  part  of  his  life 
has  furnished  him  with  many  adventures,  in  the  relation  of 
which  he  is  very  agreeable  to  the  company;  for  he  is  never 
overbearing,  though  accustomed  to  command  men  in  the  utmost 
degree  below  him;  nor  ever  too  obsequious,  from  a  habit  of  obey- 
ing men  highly  above  him. 

But  that  our  society  may  not  appear  a  set  of  humorists,  un- 
acquainted with  the  gallantries  and  pleasures  of  the  age,  we  have 
amongst  us  the  gallant  Will  Honeycomb,  a  gentleman  who,  ac- 
cording to  his  years,  should  be  in  the  decline  of  his  life,  but 
having  ever  been  very  careful  of  his  person,  and  always  having 
had  a  very  easy  fortune,  time  has  made  but  a  very  little  impres- 
sion, either  by  wrinkles  on  his  forehead,  or  traces  on  his  brain.  His 
person  is  well  turned  and  of  a  good  height.  He  is  very  ready 
at    that    sort    of    discourse    with    which    men    usually    entertain 


76  JOSEPH    ADDISON 

women.  He  has  all  his  life  dressed  very  well,  and  remembers 
habits  as  others  do  men.  He  can  smile  when  one  speaks  to  him, 
and  laughs  easily.  He  knows  the  history  of  every  mode,  and 
can  inform  you  from  which  of  the  French  king's  wenches  our 
wives  and  daughters  had  this  manner  of  curling  their  hair,  that 
way  of  placing  their  hoods,  whose  frailty  was  covered  by  such  a 
sort  of  petticoat,  and  whose  vanity  to  show  her  foot  made  that 
part  of  the  dress  so  short  in  such  a  year.  In  a  word,  all  his 
conversation  and  knowledge  has  been  in  the  female  world.  As 
other  men  of  his  age  will  take  notice  to  you  what  such  a  minis- 
ter said  upon  such  and  such  an  occasion,  he  will  tell  you  when 
the  Duke  of  Monmouth  danced  at  court  such  a  woman  was  then 
smitten,  another  was  taken  with  him  at  the  head  of  his  troop  in 
the  Park.  In  all  these  important  relations,  he  has  ever  about 
the  same  time  received  a  kind  glance,  or  a  blow  of  a  fan  from 
some  celebrated  beauty,  mother  of  the  present  Lord  Such-a-one. 
If  you  speak  of  a  young  commoner,  that  said  a  lively  thing  in 
the  house,  he  starts  up,  "He  has  good  blood  in  his  vein;  Tom 
Mirable  begot  him;  the  rogue  cheated  me  in  that  affair;  that 
young  fellow's  mother  used  me  more  like  a  dog  than  any  woman 
I  ever  made  advances  to. w  This  way  of  talking  of  his  very  much 
enlivens  the  conversation  among  us  of  a  more  sedate  turn,  and  I 
find  there  is  not  one  of  the  company,  but  myself,  who  rarely 
speak  at  all,  but  speaks  of  him  as  of  that  sort  of  man,  who  is 
usually  called  a  well-bred  fine  gentleman.  To  conclude  his  char- 
acter, where  women  are  not  concerned,  he  is  an  honest  worthy 
man. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  I  am  to  account  him,  whom  I  am  next 
to  speak  of,  as  one  of  our  company;  for  he  visits  us  but  seldom: 
but  when  he  does,  it  adds  to  every  man  else  a  new  enjoyment 
of  himself.  He  is  a  clergyman,  a  very  philosophic  man,  of  gen- 
eral learning,  great  sanctity  of  life,  and  the  most  exact  good 
breeding.  He  has  the  misfortune  to  be  of  a  very  weak  constitu- 
tion, and  consequently  cannot  accept  of  such  cares  and  business 
as  preferments  in  his  function  would  oblige  him  to;  he  is  there- 
fore among  divines  what  a  chamber  counseler  is  among  lawyers. 
The  probity  of  his  mind,  and  the  integrity  of  his  life,  create 
him  followers,  as  being  eloquent  or  loud  advances  others.  He 
seldom  introduces  the  subject  he  speaks  upon;  but  we  are  so  far 
gone  in  years,  that  he  observes,  when  he  is  among  us,  an  earnest- 
ness   to    have    him    fall    on    some    divine    topic,  which    he    always 


THE   EABSOUASE  JHO  DSJi.MIL  ST  OS.  "WILT  SHUUE. 


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"jo . 


REV.  LANCELOT  ADDISON'S   PARSONAGE. 

Birthplace  of  Joseph  Addison  with  an  Autograph  fetter  as  a  Tailpiece. 
After  an  Engraving  by  G.  Buckler. 


ddison's  father,  Rev.  Lancelot  Addison,  was  a  clergyman  of  the  Es- 
tablished Church,  having  the  cure  of  Milston  in  Wiltshire,  where 
Joseph   was  horn   in    1672. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  77 

treats  with  much  authority,  as  one  who  has  no  interest  in  this 
world,  as  one  who  is  hastening  to  the  object  of  all  his  wishes, 
and  conceives  hope  from  his  decays  and  infirmities.  These  are 
my  ordinary  companions. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


ADDISON   MEETS    SIR   ROGER 

parcit 

Cognatis  maculis  similis  /era 


—  Juv.  Sat.  XV.  159. 
From  spotted  skins  the  leopard  does  refrain. —  Tate. 

The  club  of  which  I  am  a  member  is  very  luckily  composed  of 
such  persons  as  are  engaged  in  different  ways  of  life,  and 
deputed  as  it  were  out  of  the  most  conspicuous  classes  of 
mankind.  By  this  means  I  am  furnished  with  the  greatest  variety 
of  hints  and  materials,  and  know  everything  that  passes  in  the 
different  quarters  and  divisions,  not  only  of  this  great  city,  but 
of  the  whole  kingdom  My  readers  too  have  the  satisfaction  to 
find  that  there  is  no  rank  or  degree  among  them  who  have  not 
their  representative  in  this  club,  and  that  there  is  always  some- 
body present  who  will  take  care  of  their  respective  interests,  that 
nothing  may  be  written  or  published  to  the  prejudice  or  infringe- 
ment of  their  just  rights  and  privileges. 

I  last  night  sat  very  late  in  company  with  this  select  body  of 
friends,  who  entertained  me  with  several  remarks  which  they  and 
others  had  made  upon  these  my  speculations,  as  also  with  the 
various  success  which  they  had  met  with  among  their  several 
ranks  and  degrees  of  readers.  Will  Honeycomb  told  me,  in  the 
softest  manner  he  could,  that  there  were  some  ladies, — but  for 
your  comfort,  says  Will,  they  are  not  those  of  the  most  wit, — that 
were  offended  with  the  liberties  I  had  taken  with  the  opera  and 
the  puppet  show,  that  some  of  them  were  likewise  very  much 
surprised  that  I  should  think  such  serious  points  as  the  dress  and 
equipage  of  persons  of  quality  proper  subjects  for  raillery. 

He  was  going  on,  when  Sir  Andrew  Freeport  took  him  up 
short,  and  told  him  that  the  papers  he  hinted  at  had  done  great 
good  in  the  city,  and  that  all  their  wives  and  daughters  were  the 
better  for  them;  and  further  added  that  the  whole  city  thought 
themselves  very  much  obliged  to  me  for  declaring  my  generous 


78  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

intentions  to  scourge  vice  and  folly  as  they  appear  in  a  multitude, 
without  condescending  to  be  a  publisher  of  particular   intrigues. 

.  .  w  In  short, w  says  Sir  Andrew,  <c  if  you  avoid  that  foolish 
beaten  road  of  falling  upon  aldermen  and  citizens,  and  employ 
your  pen  upon  the  vanity  and  luxury  of  courts,  your  paper  must 
needs  be  of  general  use.** 

Upon  this  my  friend  the  Templar  told  Sir  Andrew  that  he 
wondered  to  hear  a  man  of  his  sense  talk  after  that  manner; 
that  the  city  had  always  been  the  province  for  satire;  and  that 
the  wits  of  King  Charles's  time  jested  upon  nothing  else  during 
his  whole  reign.  He  then  showed,  by  the  examples  of  Horace, 
Juvenal,  Boileau,  and  the  best  writers  of  every  age,  that  the  fol- 
lies of  the  stage  and  court  had  never  been  accounted  too  sacred 
for  ridicule,  how  great  soever  the  persons  might  be  that  patron- 
ized them.  (<  But,  after  all,  *  says  he,  <(  I  think  your  raillery  has 
made  too  great  an  excursion,  in  attacking  several  persons  of  the 
inns  of  court;  and  I  do  not  believe  you  can  show  me  any  prece- 
dent for  your  behavior  in  that  particular. B 

My  good  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  who  had  said  nothing 
all  this  while,  began  his  speech  with  a  pish!  and  told  us,  that  he 
wondered  to  see  so  many  men  of  sense  so  very  serious  upon 
fooleries.  (<  Let  our  good  friend,  *  says  he,  ((  attack  every  one  that 
deserves  it;  I  would  only  advise  you,  Mr.  Spectator, w  applying 
himself  to  me,  <(  to  take  care  how  you  meddle  with  country 
'squires.  They  are  the  ornaments  of  the  English  nation;  men  of 
good  heads  and  sound  bodies!  and  let  me  tell  you,  some  of  them 
take  it  ill  of  you,  that  you  mention  fox-hunters  with  so  little  re- 
spect. B 

Captain  Sentry  spoke  very  sparingly  on  this  occasion.  What 
he  said  was  only  to  commend  my  prudence  in  not  touching  upon 
the  army,  and  advised  me  to  continue  to  act  discreetly  in  that 
point. 

By  this  time  I  found  every  subject  of  my  speculations  was 
taken  away  from  me  by  one  or  other  of  the  club;  and  began  to 
think  myself  in  the  condition  of  the  good  man  that  had  one  wife 
who  took  a  dislike  to  his  gray  hairs,  and  another  to  his  black, 
till,  by  their  picking  out  what  each  of  them  had  an  aversion  to, 
they  left  his  head  altogether  bald  and  naked. 

While  I  was  thus  musing  with  myself,  my  worthy  friend  the 
clergyman,  who,  very  luckily  for  me,  was  at  the  club  that  night, 
undertook  my  cause.     He  told  us  that  he  wondered  any  order  of 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  79 

persons  should  think  themselves  too  considerable  to  be  advised. 
That  it  was  not  quality,  but  innocence,  which  exempted  men 
from  reproof.  That  vice  and  folly  ought  to  be  attacked  wherever 
they  could  be  met  with,  and  especially  when  they  were  placed 
in  high  and  conspicuous  stations  of  life.  He  further  added  that 
my  paper  would  only  serve  to  aggravate  the  pains  of  poverty  if 
it  chiefly  exposed  those  who  are  already  depressed,  and  in  some 
measure  turned  into  ridicule  by  the  meanness  of  their  conditions 
and  circumstances.  He  afterwards  proceeded  to  take  notice  of 
the  great  use  this  paper  might  be  of  to  the  public,  by  repre- 
hending those  vices  which  are  too  trivial  for  the  chastisement  of 
the  law,  and  too  fantastical  for  the  cognizance  of  the  pulpit.  He 
then  advised  me  to  prosecute  my  undertaking  with  cheerfulness, 
and  assured  me  that  whoever  might  be  displeased  with  me,  I 
should  be  approved  by  all  those  whose  praises  do  honor  to  the 
persons  on  whom  they  are  bestowed. 

The  whole  club  pay  a  particular  deference  to  the  discourse  of 
this  gentleman,  and  are  drawn  into  what  he  says,  as  much  by 
the  candid  ingenuous  manner  with  which  he  delivers  himself,  as 
by  the  strength  of  argument  and  force  of  reason  which  he  makes 
use  of.  Will  Honeycomb  immediately  agreed  that  what  he  had 
said  was  right;  and  that,  for  his  part,  he  would-  not  insist  upon 
the  quarter  which  he  had  demanded  for  the  ladies.  Sir  Andrew 
gave  up  the  city  with  the  same  frankness.  The  Templar  would 
not  stand  out  and  was  followed  by  Sir  Roger  and  the  Captain; 
who  all  agreed  that  I  should  be  at  liberty  to  carry  the  war  into 
what  quarter  I  pleased,  provided  I  continued  to  combat  with 
criminals  in  a  body,  and  to  assault  the  vice  without  hurting  the 
person. 

This  debate,  which  was  held  for  the  good  of  mankind,  put  me 
in  mind  of  that  which  the  Roman  triumvirate  were  formerly  en- 
gaged in  for  their  destruction.  Every  man  at  first  stood  hard 
for  his  friend,  till  they  found  that  by  this  means  they  should 
spoil  their  proscription;  and  at  length,  making  a  sacrifice  of  all 
their  acquaintance  and  relations,  furnished  out  a  very  decent 
execution. 

Having  thus  taken  my  resolutions  to  march  on  boldly  in  the 
cause  of  virtue  and  good  sense,  and  to  annoy  their  adversaries  in 
whatever  degree  or  rank  of  men  they  may  be  found,  I  shall  be 
deaf  for  the  future  to  all  the  remonstrances  that  shall  be  made 
to  me  on  this  account.      If  Punch  grow  extravagant  I  shall  rep- 


fa  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

and  him  very  K  the   stage  become  a  nursery  of  folly 

and   impertinence,  I    shall  not      .    afraid   to  animadvert   upon  it. 
I-    short,   if  I  meet  ng  in  city,  court,  or  country,  that 

cks  modesty  or  good  manners.  I  shall  use  my  utmost  endeav- 
ors tc  make  an  example  of  it.  I  must,  however,  entreat  every 
par:  -  es   me  the  honor  to  be  a  reader  of  this 

paper,   never   t     think  himself  or  any    one   ;:   his  friends  or  ene- 

ed   at  in  what  is  said,   for  I  promise  him  never  to  c 
a  :  aracter  which   ioes  not  fit  at  leas:  a   thousand  pec; 

;-  to    publish  a  single  paper  that    is  not  written  in  the  spirit  of 
bene      Lence  and  with  a  love  :o  mankind. 

F     m  tbe  Spx    tat   r—  N":    ;_       .- .; ■-'.     t±    :_n. 


sir  Roger  at  home 

A". 


Hor.  LA.  I.  Od  XVII.  14. 

ur 

J  :   frA:s  :"  :r  -    -  ■    ~'r. 

.a  honors     :  lain. 

H  often  received  an  invitation  from  my  friend  Sir  Roger 

de    Coverley  to  pass  away  a  month  with  him  in   the    coun- 
:ry.  I  lis:  .;:>mpanied   him    thither,  and  am  settled 

him    for    same   time  at  his  country  house,  where  I  intend  to 
::rm  severa  ■  e: >  :i r.r,    - re:  ala:    as.      Sir  Roger,  who  is  very 

humor,  lets  me  rise  and  go  to  bed  when 

I  please  :  his  own  table   :r  in  my  chamber,  as  I  think  fit. 

-  :    s:  '1    ana    sav  r.  ::'am  -  wi:h:u:  a    me    re    merrv.      When 

gentl  :men  of  the  conntry  come  to  see  him,  he  only  shows  me 

..:   ..     "  s:anc=        A?   I  a      'A'k::.;  in   his   aelds    I   have    :':- 

served  therr.  s:ealing  a  -  ght   :f  me  over  a  hedge,  and  have  heard 

the    knight     le siring   them   not   to   let    me    see    them,  for   that    I 

to  be  stared  at 

I  am  :he  m:re   ;.:  ease  in   Sir  R:r;er's  family,    beeav.se   i:    ::::- 

::'   s:'rer    ana   staid  persons,  for   as   the    knight    is    the    best 

master  in  the  world,  he  seldom  changes  his  servants;    and   as  he 

is  beloved  by  all  about  him.  his  servants  never  care   for  lea" 

him:  by  this  means  his  domestics  are  all  in  years,  and  grown  old 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  81 

with  their  master.  You  would  take  his  valet  de  chambre  for  his 
brother,  his  butler  is  gray-headed,  his  groom  is  one  of  the  grav- 
est men  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  his  coachman  has  the  looks 
of  a  privy  counselor.  You  see  the  goodness  of  the  master  even 
in  the  old  housedog,  and  in  a  gray  pad  that  is  kept  in  the  stable 
with  great  care  and  tenderness  out  of  regard  to  his  past  services, 
though  he  has  been  useless  for  several  years. 

I  could  not  but  observe  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  the  ;  y 
that  appeared  in  the  countenances  of  these  ancient  dorr, 
upon  my  friend's  arrival  at  his  country  seat.  Some  of  them  could 
not  refrain  from  tears  at  the  sight  of  their  old  master;  every  one 
of  them  pressed  forward  to  do  something  for  him,  and  seemed 
discouraged  if  they  were  not  employed.  At  the  same  time  the 
good  old  knight,  with  a  mixture  of  the  father  and  the  master  of 
the  family,  tempered  the  inquiries  after  his  own  affairs  with  sev- 
eral kind  questions  relating  to  themselves.  This  humanity  and 
good  nature  engages  everybody  to  him,  so  that  when  he  is  pleas- 
ant upon  any  of  them,  all  his  family  are  in  good  humor,  and  none 
so  much  as  the  person  whom  he  diverts  himself  with:  on  the 
contrary,  if  he  cough,  or  betray  any  infirmity  of  old  age.  it  is 
easy  for  a  stander-by  to  observe  a  secret  concern  in  the  looks  of 
all  his  servants. 

My  worthy  friend  has  put  me  under  the  particular  care  of  his 
butler,  who  is  a  very  prudent  man,  and,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  his 
fellow-servants,  wonderfully  desirous  of  pleasing  me,  because  they 
have  often  heard  their  master  talk  of  me  as  of  his  particular 
friend. 

My  chief  companion,  when  Sir  Roger  is  diverting  himself  in 
the  woods  or  the  fields,  is  a  very  venerable  man  who  is  ever 
with  Sir  Roger,  and  has  lived  at  his  house  in  the  nature  of  a 
chaplain  above  thirty  years.  This  gentleman  is  a  person  of  good 
sense  and  some  learning,  of  a  very  regular  life,  and  obliging  con- 
versation ;  he  heartily  loves  Sir  Roger,  and  knows  that  he  is  very 
much  in  the  old  knight's  esteem,  so  that  he  lives  in  the  family 
rather  as  a  relation  than  a  dependent. 

I  have  observed  in  several  of  my  papers,  that  my  friend  Sir 
Roger,  amidst  all  his  good  qualities,  is  something  of  a  humorist; 
and  that  his  virtues,  as  well  as  imperfections,  are  as  it  were 
tinged  by  a  certain  extravagance,  which  makes  them  particular"  y 
his,  and  distinguishes  them  from  those  of  other  men.  This  cast 
of  mind,  as  it  is  generally  very  innocent  in  itself,  so  it  renders 
i—6 


82  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

his  conversation  highly  agreeable,  and  more  delightful  than  the 
same  degree  of  sense  and  virtue  would  appear  in  their  common 
and  ordinary  colors.  As  I  was  walking  with  him  last  night,  he 
asked  me  how  I  liked  the  good  man  whom  I  have  just  now 
mentioned,  and  without  staying  for  my  answer  told  me  that  he 
was  afraid  of  being  insulted  with  Latin  and  Greek  at  his  own 
table;  for  which  reason  he  desired  a  particular  friend  of  his  at 
the  university  to  find  him  out  a  clergyman  rather  of  plain  sense 
than  much  learning,  of  a  good  aspect,  a  clear  voice,  a  sociable 
temper,  and,  if  possible,  a  man  that  understood  a  little  of  back- 
gammon. (<  My  friend, B  says  Sir  Roger,  <(  found  me  out  this  gen- 
tleman, who,  besides  the  endowments  required  of  him,  is,  they 
tell  me,  a  good  scholar,  though  he  does  not  show  it.  I  have 
given  him  the  parsonage  of  the  parish;  and,  because  I  know  his 
value,  have  settled  upon  him  a  good  annuity  for  life.  If  he  out- 
live me,  he  shall  find  that  he  was  higher  in  my  esteem  than 
perhaps  he  thinks  he  is.  He  has  now  been  with  me  thirty  years; 
and,  though  he  does  not  know  I  have  taken  notice  of  it,  has 
never  in  all  that  time  asked  anything  of  me  for  himself,  though 
he  is  every  day  soliciting  me  for  something  in  behalf  of  one  or 
other  of  my  tenants,  his  parishioners.  There  has  not  been  a  law- 
suit in  the  parish  since  he  has  lived  among  them;  if  any  dispute 
arise  they  apply  themselves  to  him  for  the  decision;  if  they  do 
not  acquiesce  in  his  judgment,  which  I  think  never  happened 
above  once  or  twice  at  most,  they  appeal  to  me.  At  his  first 
settling  with  me,  I  made  him  a  present  of  all  the  good  sermons 
which  have  been  printed  in  English,  and  only  begged  of  him 
that  every  Sunday  he  would  pronounce  one  of  them  in  the  pul- 
pit. Accordingly  he  has  digested  them  into  such  a  series,  that 
they  follow  one  another  naturally,  and  make  a  continued  system 
of  practical  divinity." 

As  Sir  Roger  was  going  on  in  his  story,  the  gentleman  we 
were  talking  of  came  up  to  us;  and  upon  the  knight's  asking 
him  who  preached  to-morrow  (for  it  was  Saturday  night)  told  us 
the  Bishop  of  Saint  Asaph  in  the  morning,  and  Doctor  South  in  the 
afternoon.  He  then  showed  us  his  list  of  preachers  for  the  whole 
year,  where  I  saw  with  a  good  deal  of  pleasure,  Archbishop  Tillot- 
son,  Bishop  Saunderson,  Doctor  Barrow,  Doctor  Calamy,  with  sev- 
eral living  authors  who  have  published  discourses  of  practical  divin- 
ity. I  no  sooner  saw  this  venerable  man  in  the  pulpit,  but  I  very 
much   approved  my  friend's  insisting  upon   the   qualification   of  a 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  83 

good  aspect  and  a  clear  voice;  for  I  was  so  charmed  with  the 
gracefulness  of  his  figure  and  delivery,  as  well  as  with  the  dis- 
courses he  pronounced,  that  I  think  I  never  passed  any  time 
more  to  my  satisfaction.  A  sermon  repeated  after  this  manner  is 
like  the  composition  of  a  poet  in  the  mouth  of  a  graceful  actor. 
I  could  heartily  wish  that  more  of  our  country  clergy  would 
follow  this  example;  and,  instead  of  wasting  their  spirits  in  labori- 
ous compositions  of  their  own,  would  endeavor  after  a  handsome 
elocution,  and  all  those  other  talents  that  are  proper  to  enforce 
what  has  been  penned  by  greater  masters.  This  would  not  only 
be  more  easy  to  themselves,  but  more  edifying  to  the  people. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


WILL   WIMBLE    IS   INTRODUCED 

Gratis  anhelans,  multa  agendo  nihil  agens. 

—  Phcedr.  Fab.  V.  1,  2. 

Out  of  breath  to  no  purpose,  and  very  busy  about  nothing. 

As  I  was  yesterday  morning  walking  with  Sir  Roger  before 
his  house,  a  country  fellow  brought  him  a  huge  fish,  which, 
he  told  him,  Mr.  William  Wimble  had  caught  that  very 
morning;  and  that  he  presented  it  with  his  service  to  him,  and 
intended  to  come  and  dine  with  him.  At  the  same  time  he  de- 
livered a  letter,  which  my  friend  read  to  me  as  soon  as  the 
messenger  left  him. 

Sir  Roger :  — 

I  desire  you  to  accept  of  a  jack,  which  is  the  best  I  have  caught 
this  season.  I  intend  to  come  and  stay  with  you  a  week,  and  see 
how  the  perch  bite  in  the  Black  River.  I  observed  with  some  con- 
cern, the  last  time  I  saw  you  upon  the  bowling-green,  that  your  whip 
wanted  a  lash  to  it;  I  will  bring  half  a  dozen  with  me  that  I  twisted 
last  week,  which  I  hope  will  serve  you  all  the  time  you  are  in  the 
country.  I  have  not  been  out  of  the  saddle  for  six  days  last  past, 
having  been  at  Eton  with  Sir  John's  eldest  son.  He  takes  to  his 
learning  hugely.     I  am,  sir, 

Your  humble  servant, 

Will  Wimble. 

This  extraordinary  letter  and  message  that  accompanied  it 
made  me  very  curious  to  know  the  character  and  quality  of  the 
gentleman  who  sent  them;  which  I  found  to  be  as  follows:    Will 


84  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

Wimble  is  younger  brother  to  a  baronet,  and  descended  of  the 
ancient  family  of  the  Wimbles.  He  is  now  between  forty  and 
fifty;  but  being  bred  to  no  business  and  born  to  no  estate,  he 
generally  lives  with  his  elder  brother  as  superintendent  of  his 
game.  He  hunts  a  pack  of  dogs  better  than  any  man  in  the 
country',  and  is  very  famous  for  finding  out  a  hare.  He  is  ex- 
tremely well  versed  in  all  the  little  handicrafts  of  an  idle  man. 
He  makes  a  May  fly  to  a  miracle,  and  furnishes  the  whole  coun- 
try with  angle  rods.  As  he  is  a  good-natured,  officious  fellow, 
and  very  much  esteemed  upon  account  of  his  family,  he  is  a  wel- 
come guest  at  every  house,  and  keeps  up  a  good  correspondence 
among  all  the  gentlemen  about  him.  He  carries  a  tulip  root  in 
his  pocket  from  one  to  another,  or  exchanges  a  puppy  between  a 
couple  of  friends  that  live  perhaps  in  the  opposite  sides  of  the 
country.  Will  is  a  particular  favorite  of  all  the  young  heirs, 
whom  he  frequently  obliges  with  a  net  that  he  has  weaved,  or  a 
setting-dog  that  he  has  made  himself.  He  now  and  then  pre- 
sents a  pair  of  garters  of  his  own  knitting  to  their  mothers  or 
sisters;  and  raises  a  great  deal  of  mirth  among  them  by  inquiring 
as  often  as  he  meets  them  (<  how  they  wear!  w  These  gentleman- 
like manufactures  and  obliging  little  humors  make  Will  the  dar- 
ling of  the  country. 

Sir  Roger  was  proceeding  in  the  character  of  him,  when  he 
saw  him  make  up  to  us  with  two  or  three  hazel  twigs  in  his 
hand  that  he  had  cut  in  Sir  Roger's  woods,  as  he  came  through 
them,  on  his  way  to  the  house.  I  was  very  much  pleased  to  ob- 
serve on  one  side  the  hearty  and  sincere  welcome  with  which 
Sir  Roger  received  him,  and,  on  the  other,  the  secret  joy  which 
his  guest  discovered  at  sight  of  the  good  old  knight.  After  the 
first  salutes  were  over,  Will  desired  Sir  Roger  to  lend  him  one 
of  his  servants  to  carry  a  set  of  shuttlecocks  he  had  with  him  in  a 
little  box,  to  a  lady  that  lived  about  a  mile  off,  to  whom  it  seems 
he  had  promised  such  a  present  for  above  this  half  year.  Sir 
Roger's  back  was  no  sooner  turned  but  honest  Will  began  to  tell 
me  of  a  large  cock  pheasant  that  he  had  sprung  in  one  of  the 
neighboring  woods,  with  two  or  three  other  adventures  of  the 
same  nature.  Odd  and  uncommon  characters  are  the  game  that  I 
look  for,  and  most  delight  in;  for  which  reason  I  was  as  much 
pleased  with  the  novelty  of  the  person  that  talked  to  me,  as  he 
could  be  for  his  life  with  the  springing  of  a  pheasant,  and  there- 
fore listened  to  him  with  more  than  ordinary  attention. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  85 

In  the  midst  of  this  discourse  the  bell  rung  to  dinner,  where 
the  gentleman  I  have  been  speaking  of  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing the  huge  jack  he  had  caught  served  up  for  the  first  dish  in 
a  most  sumptuous  manner.  Upon  our  sitting  down  to  it  he  gave 
us  a  long  account  how  he  had  hooked  it,  played  with  it,  foiled 
it,  and  at  length  drew  it  out  upon  the  bank,  with  several  other 
particulars  that  lasted  all  the  first  course.  A  dish  of  wild  fowl 
that  came  afterwards  furnished  conversation  for  the  rest  of  the 
dinner,  which  concluded  with  a  late  invention  of  Will's  for  im- 
proving the  quail-pipe. 

Upon  withdrawing  into  my  room  after  dinner  I  was  secretly 
touched  with  compassion  towards  the  honest  gentleman  that  had 
dined  with  us,  and  could  not  but  consider  with  a  great  deal  of 
concern  how  so  good  a  heart  and  such  busy  hands  were  wholly 
employed  in  trifles;  that  so  much  humanity  should  be  so  little 
beneficial  to  others,  and  so  much  industry  so  little  advantageous 
to  himself.  The  same  temper  of  mind  and  application  to  affairs 
might  have  recommended  him  to  the  public  esteem,  and  have 
raised  his  fortune  in  another  station  of  life.  What  good  to  his 
country  or  himself  might  not  a  trader  or  a  merchant  have  done 
with  such  useful  though  ordinary  qualifications! 

Will  Wimble's  is  the  case  of  many  a  younger  brother  of  a 
great  family,  who  had  rather  see  their  children  starve  like  gen- 
tlemen, than  thrive  in  a  trade  or  profession  that  is  beneath  their 
quality.  This  humor  fills  several  parts  of  Europe  with  pride 
and  beggary.  It  is  the  happiness  of  a  trading  nation  like  ours, 
that  the  younger  sons,  though  incapable  of  any  liberal  art  or 
profession,  may  be  placed  in  such  a  way  of  life  as  may  perhaps 
enable  them  to  vie  with  the  best  of  their  family.  Accordingly 
we  find  several  citizens  that  were  launched  into  the  world  with 
narrow  fortunes,  rising  by  an  honest  industry  to  greater  estates 
than  those  of  their  elder  brothers.  It  is  not  improbable  but 
Will  was  formerly  tried  at  divinity,  law,  or  physic;  and  that 
finding  his  genius  did  not  lie  that  way,  his  parents  gave  him 
up  at  length  to  his  own  inventions.  But  certainly,  however 
improper  he  might  have  been  for  studies  of  a  higher  nature,  he 
was  perfectly  well  turned  for  the  occupations  of  trade  and  com- 
merce. As  I  think  this  is  a  point  which  cannot  be  too  much 
inculcated,  I  shall  desire  my  reader  to  compare  what  I  have  here 
written  with  what  I  have  said  in  my  twenty-first  speculation. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


86  JOSEPH   ADDISON 


THE    COVERLEY  GHOSTS 


Horror  ubique  animos,  si'mul  ipsa  silentia  lerrent. 

—  Virg.  ;£n.  II.  755. 

All  things  are  full  of  horror  and  affright, 
And  dreadful  ev'n  the  silence  of  the  night. 

—  Dry  den. 

At  a  little  distance  from  Sir  Roger's  house,  among  the  ruins 
of  an  old  abbey,  there  is  a  long  walk  of  aged  elms,  which 
are  shot  up  so  very  high,  that  when  one  passes  under  them, 
the  rooks  and  crows  that  rest  upon  the  tops  of  them  seem  to  be 
cawing  in  another  region.  I  am  very  much  delighted  with  this 
sort  of  noise,  which  I  consider  as  a  kind  of  natural  prayer  to 
that  Being  who  supplies  the  wants  of  his  whole  creation,  and 
who,  in  the  beautiful  language  of  the  Psalms,  feedeth  the  young 
ravens  that  call  upon  him.  I  like  this  retirement  the  better,  be- 
cause of  an  ill  report  it  lies  under  of  being  haunted;  for  which 
reason  (as  I  have  been  told  in  the  family)  no  living  creature  ever 
walks  in  it  besides  the  chaplain.  My  good  friend  the  butler  de- 
sired me  with  a  very  grave  face  not  to  venture  myself  in  it  after 
sunset,  for  that  one  of  the  footmen  had  been  almost  frighted  out 
of  his  wits  by  a  spirit  that  appeared  to  him  in  the  shape  of 
a  black  horse  without  a  head;  to  which  he  added,  that  about  a 
month  ago  one  of  the  maids  coming  home  late  that  way  with  a 
pail  of  milk  upon  her  head,  heard  such  a  rustling  among  the 
bushes  that  she  let  it  fall. 

I  was  taking  a  walk  in  this  place  last  night  between  the  hours 
of  nine  and  ten,  and  could  not  but  fancy  it  one  of  the  most 
proper  scenes  in  the  world  for  a  ghost  to  appear  in.  The  ruins  of 
the  abbey  are  scattered  up  and  down  on  every  side,  and  half  cov- 
ered with  ivy  and  elder  bushes,  the  harbors  of  several  solitary 
birds  which  seldom  make  their  appearance  till  the  dusk  of  the 
evening.  The  place  was  formerly  a  churchyard,  and  has  still 
several  marks  in  it  of  graves  and  burying  places.  There  is  such 
an  echo  among  the  old  ruins  and  vaults,  that  if  you  stamp  but  a 
little  louder  than  ordinary  you  hear  the  sound  repeated.  At  the 
same  time  the  walk  of  elms,  with  the  croaking  of  the  ravens 
which  from  time  to  time  is  heard  from  the  tops  of  them,  looks 
exceeding  solemn  and  venerable.  These  objects  naturally  raise 
seriousness  and  attention;  and  when  night  heightens  the  awful- 


JOSEPH    ADDISON  87 

ness  of  the  place,  and  pours  out  her  supernumerary  horrors  upon 
everything  in  it,  I  do  not  at  all  wonder  that  weak  minds  fill  it 
with  spectres  and  apparitions. 

Mr.  Locke,  in  his  chapter  of  the  (<  Association  of  Ideas, w  has 
very  curious  remarks  to  show  how,  by  the  prejudice  of  education, 
one  idea  often  introduces  into  the  mind  a  whole  set  that  bear  no 
resemblance  to  one  another  in  the  nature  of  things.  Among  sev- 
eral examples  of  this  kind,  he  produces  the  following  instance: 
<(  The  ideas  of  goblins  and  sprites  have  really  no  more  to  do  with 
darkness  than  light:  yet  let  but  a  foolish  maid  inculcate  these 
often  in  the  mind  of  a  child,  and  raise  them  there  together,  pos- 
sibly he  shall  never  be  able  to  separate  them  again  so  long  as  he 
lives;  but  darkness  shall  ever  afterwards  bring  with  it  those 
frightful  ideas,  and  they  shall  be  so  joined,  that  he  can  no  more 
bear  the  one  than  the  other. w 

As  I  was  walking  in  this  solitude,  where  the  dusk  of  the 
evening  conspired  with  so  many  other  occasions  of  terror,  I  ob- 
served a  cow  grazing  not  far  from  me,  which  an  imagination  that 
was  apt  to  startle  might  easily  have  construed  into  a  black  horse 
without  a  head:  and  I  dare  say  the  poor  footman  lost  his  wits 
upon  some  such  trivial  occasion. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger  has  often  told  me  with  a  great  deal  of 
mirth,  that  at  his  first  coming  to  his  estate  he  found  three  parts 
of  his  house  altogether  useless;  that  the  best  room  in  it  had  the 
reputation  of  being  haunted,  and  by  that  means  was  locked  up; 
that  noises  had  been  heard  in  his  long  gallery,  so  that  he  could 
not  get  a  servant  to  enter  it  after  eight  o'clock  at  night;  that 
the  door  of  one  of  his  chambers  was  nailed  up,  because  there 
went  a  story  in  the  family  that  a  butler  had  formerly  hanged 
himself  in  it;  and  that  his  mother,  who  lived  to  a  great  age,  had 
shut  up  half  the  rooms  in  the  house,  in  which  either  her  husband, 
a  son,  or  a  daughter  had  died.  The  knight  seeing  his  habitation 
reduced  to  so  small  a  compass,  and  himself  in  a  manner  shut  out 
of  his  own  house,  upon  the  death  of  his  mother  ordered  all  the 
apartments  to  be  flung  open,  and  exorcised  by  his  chaplain,  who 
lay  in  every  room  one  after  another,  and  by  that  means  dissi- 
pated the  fears  which  had  so  long  reigned  in  the  family. 

I  should  not  have  been  thus  particular  upon  these  ridiculous 
horrors,  did  not  I  find  them  so  very  much  prevail  in  all  parts  of 
the  country.  At  the  same  time  I  think  a  person  who  is  thus 
terrified  with  the  imagination  of  ghosts  and  spectres  much  more 


88  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

reasonable  than  one  who,  contrary  to  the  reports  of  all  historians, 
sacred  and  profane,  ancient  and  modern,  and  to  the  traditions  of 
all  nations,  thinks  the  appearance  of  spirits  fabulous  and  ground- 
less. Could  not  I  give  myself  up  to  this  general  testimony  of 
mankind,  I  should  to  the  relations  of  particular  persons  who  are 
now  living,  and  whom  I  cannot  distrust  in  other  matters  of  fact. 
I  might  here  add,  that  not  only  the  historians,  to  whom  we  may 
join  the  poets,  but  likewise  the  philosophers  of  antiquity,  have 
favored  this  opinion.  Lucretius  himself,  though  by  the  course  of 
his  philosophy  he  was  obliged  to  maintain  that  the  soul  did  not 
exist  separate  from  the  body,  makes  no  doubt  of  the  reality  of 
apparitions,  and  that  men  have  often  appeared  after  their  death. 

This  I  think  very  remarkable;  he  was  so  pressed  with  the 
matter  of  fact,  which  he  could  not  have  the  confidence  to  deny, 
that  he  was  forced  to  account  for  it  by  one  of  the  most  absurd 
unphilosophical  notions  that  was  ever  started.  He  tells  us  that 
the  surfaces  of  all  bodies  are  perpetually  flying  off  from  their 
respective  bodies,  one  after  another;  and  that  these  surfaces  or 
thin  cases  that  included  each  other  whilst  they  were  joined  in 
the  body  like  the  coats  of  an  onion,  are  sometimes  seen  entire 
when  they  are  separated  from  it;  by  which  means  we  often  be- 
hold the  shapes  and  shadows  of  persons  who  are  either  dead  or 
absent. 

I  shall  dismiss  this  paper  with  a  story  out  of  Josephus,  not 
so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  story  itself  as  for  the  moral  reflec- 
tions with  which  the  author  concludes  it,  and  which  I  shall  here 
set  down  in  his  own  words :  <(  Glaphyra,  the  daughter  of  King 
Archelaus,  after  the  death  of  her  two  first  husbands  (being  mar- 
ried to  a  third,  who  was  brother  to  her  first  husband,  and  so 
passionately  in  love  with  her  that  he  turned  off  his  former  wife 
to  make  room  for  this  marriage),  had  a  very  odd  kind  of  dream. 
She  fancied  that  she  saw  her  first  husband  coming  towards  her, 
and  that  she  embraced  him  with  great  tenderness;  when,  in  the 
midst  of  the  pleasure  which  she  expressed  at  the  sight  of  him, 
he  reproached  her  after  the  following  manner:  Glaphyra,*  says 
he,  ( thou  hast  made  good  the  old  saying  that  women  are  not  to 
be  trusted.  Was  not  I  the  husband  of  thy  virginity  ?  Have  I 
not  children  by  thee  ?  How  couldst  thou  forget  our  loves  so  far 
as  to  enter  into  a  second  marriage,  and  after  that  into  a  third, — 
nay  to  take  for  thy  husband  a  man  who  has  so  shamelessly  crept 
into    the   bed    of   his   brother  ?      However,   for    the    sake    of    our 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  89 

past  loves,  I  shall  free  thee  from  thy  present  reproach,  and 
make  thee  mine  forever. >  n  Glaphyra  told  this  dream  to  several 
women  of  her  acquaintance,  and  died  soon  after.  I  thought  this 
story  might  not  be  impertinent  in  this  place,  wherein  I  speak  of 
those  kings.  Besides,  that  the  example  deserves  to  be  taken 
notice  of,  as  it  contains  a  most  certain  proof  of  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  and  of  Divine  Providence.  If  any  man  think  these 
facts  incredible,  let  him  enjoy  his  own  opinion  to  himself,  but  let 
him  not  endeavor  to  disturb  the  belief  of  others,  who,  by  in- 
stances of  this  nature,  are  excited  to  the  study  of  virtue. 

Complete  from  the  Spectator. 


SUNDAY   WITH    SIR    ROGER 

'ABavarovQ  jxev  rrpura  #eot)f,  vSfio)  ug  dtaaeiTal, 
Ttfxa —  Pythag. 

First,  in  obedience  to  thy  country's  rites, 
Worship  th'  immortal  gods. 

I  am  always  very  well  pleased  with  a  country  Sunday,  and  think, 
if  keeping  holy  the  seventh  day  were  only  a  human  institu- 
tion, it  would  be  the  best  method  that  could  have  been 
thought  of  for  the  polishing  and  civilizing  of  mankind.  It  is 
certain  the  country  people  Would  soon  degenerate  into  a  kind  of 
savages  and  barbarians,  were  there  not  such  frequent  returns  of  a 
stated  time,  in  which  the  whole  village  meet  together  with  their 
best  faces,  and  in  their  cleanliest  habits,  to  converse  with  one 
another  upon  indifferent  subjects,  hear  their  duties  explained  to 
them,  and  join  together  in  adoration  of  the  Supreme  Being. 
Sunday  clears  away  the  rust  of  the  whole  week,  not  only  as  it 
refreshes  in  their  minds  the  notions  of  religion,  but  as  it  puts 
both  the  sexes  upon  appearing  in  their  most  agreeable  forms, 
and  exerting  all  such  qualities  as  are  apt  to  give  them  a  figure 
in  the  eye  of  the  village.  A  country  fellow  distinguishes  himself 
as  much  in  the  churchyard  as  a  citizen  does  upon  the  'Change, 
the  whole  parish  politics  being  generally  discussed  in  that  place 
either  after  sermon  or  before  the  bell  ringfs. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger,  being  a  good  churchman,  has  beautified 
the  inside  of  his  church  with  several  texts  of  his  own  choosing. 


9<D  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

He  has  likewise  given  a  handsome  pulpit  cloth  and  railed  in  the 
communion  table  at  his  own  expense.  He  has  often  told  me 
that  at  his  coming  to  his  estate  he  found  his  parishioners  very 
irresfular,  and  that  in  order  to  make  them  kneel  and  join  in  the 
responses  he  gave  every  one  of  them  a  hassock  and  a  common- 
prayer  book,  and  at  the  same  time  employed  an  itinerant  singing 
master,  who  goes  about  the  country  for  that  purpose,  to  instruct 
them  rightly  in  the  tunes  of  the  Psalms,  upon  which  they  now 
very  much  value  themselves,  and  indeed  outdo  most  of  the  coun- 
try churches  that  I  have  ever  heard. 

As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole  congregation,  he  keeps 
them  in  very  good  order  and  will  suffer  nobody  to  sleep  in  it 
besides  himself;  for  if  by  chance  he  has  been  surprised  into  a 
short  nap  at  sermon,  upon  recovering  out  of  it  he  stands  up  and 
looks  about  him,  and  if  he  sees  anybody  else  nodding,  either 
wakes  them  himself  or  sends  his  servants  to  them.  Several  other 
of  the  old  knight's  particularities  break  out  upon  these  occasions. 
Sometimes  he  will  be  lengthening  out  a  verse  in  singing  the 
Psalms  half  a  minute  after  the  rest  of  the  congregation  have 
done  with  it;  sometimes,  when  he  is  pleased  with  the  matter  of 
his  devotion,  he  pronounces  (<  Amen w  three  or  four  times  to  the 
same  prayer;  and  sometimes  stands  up  when  everybody  else  is 
upon  their  knees,  to  count  the  congregation  or  see  if  any  of  his 
tenants  are  missing. 

I  was  yesterday  very  much  surprised  to  hear  my  old  friend, 
in  the  midst  of  the  service,  calling  out  to  one  John  Matthews  to 
mind  what  he  was  about,  and  not  disturb  the  congregation.  This 
John  Matthews,  it  seems,  is  remarkable  for  being  an  idle  fellow, 
and  at  that  time  was  kicking  his  heels  for  his  diversion.  This 
authority  of  the  knight,  though  exerted  in  that  odd  manner, 
which  accompanies  him  in  all  circumstances  of  life,  has  a  very 
good  effect  upon  the  parish,  who  are  not  polite  enough  to  see 
anything  ridiculous  in  his  behavior;  besides  that,  the  general 
good  sense  and  worthiness  of  his  character  make  his  friends  ob- 
serve these  little  singularities  as  foils  that  rather  set  off  than 
blemish  his  good  qualities. 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  nobody  presumes  to  stir 
till  Sir  Roger  is  gone  out  of  the  church.  The  knight  walks 
down  from  his  seat  in  the  chancel  between  a  double  row  of  his 
tenants,  that  stand  bowing  to  him  on  each  side,  and  every  now 
and  then  inquires  how  such  a  one's   wife,  or  mother,  or  son,  or 


JOSEPH    ADDISON  9  I 

father  do,  whom  he  does  not  see  at  church,  which  is  understood 
as  a  secret  reprimand  to  the  person  that  is  absent. 

The  chaplain  has  often  told  me  that  upon  a  catechising  day, 
when  Sir  Roger  has  been  pleased  with  a  boy  that  answers  well, 
he  has  ordered  a  Bible  to  be  given  him  next  day  for  his  encour- 
agement; and  sometimes  accompanies  it  with  a  flitch  of  bacon  to 
his  mother.  Sir  Roger  has  likewise  added  five  pounds  a  year  to 
the  clerk's  place;  and,  that  he  may  encourage  the  young  fellows 
to  make  themselves  perfect  in  the  church  service,  has  promised 
upon  the  death  of  the  present  incumbent,  who  is  very  old,  to  be- 
stow it  according  to  merit. 

The  fair  understanding  between  Sir  Roger  and  his  chaplain, 
and  their  mutual  concurrence  in  doing  good,  is  the  more  remark- 
able because  the  very  next  village  is  famous  for  the  differences 
and  contentions  that  rise  between  the  parson  and  the  'squire, 
who  live  in  a  perpetual  state  of  war.  The  parson  is  always 
preaching  at  the  'squire;  and  the  'squire,  to  be  revenged  on  the 
parson,  never  comes  to  church.  The  'squire  has  made  all  his 
tenants  atheists  and  tithe-stealers;  while  the  parson  instructs 
them  every  Sunday  in  the  dignity  of  his  order,  and  insinuates  to 
them  in  almost  every  sermon  that  he  is  a  better  man  than  his 
patron.  In  short,  matters  are  come  to  such  an  extremity,  that 
the  'squire  has  not  said  his  prayers  either  in  public  or  private 
this  half  year;  and  that  the  parson  threatens  him,  if  he  does  not 
mend  his  manners,  to  pray  for  him  in  the  face  of  the  whole  con- 
gregation. 

Feuds  of  this  nature,  though  too  frequent  in  the  country,  are 
very  fatal  to  the  ordinary  people,  who  are  so  used  to  be  dazzled 
with  riches,  that  they  pay  as  much  deference  to  the  understand- 
ing of  a  man  of  an  estate,  as  of  a  man  of  learning,  and  are  very 
hardly  brought  to  regard  any  truth,  how  important  soever  it  may 
be,  that  is  preached  to  them,  when  they  know  there  are  several 
men  of  five  hundred  a  year  who  do  not  believe  it. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


02  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

THE  SPECTATOR  RETURNS  TO  LONDON 

Qui,  aut  tempus  quid  postulet  non  videt,  aut  plura  lo- 
quitur, aut  se  ostentat,  aut  eorum  quibusctim  est  rationem 
non  habet,  is  ineptus  esse  dicitur.  —  Tull. 

That  man  may  be  called  impertinent,  who  considers  not 
the  circumstances  of  time,  or  engrosses  the  conversation,  or 
makes  himself  the  subject  of  his  discourse,  or  pays  no  regard 
to  the  company  he  is  in. 

Having  notified  my  good  friend  Sir  Roger  that  I  should  set 
out  for  London  the  next  day,  his  horses  were  ready  at  the 
appointed  hour  in  the  evening;  and,  attended  by  one  of 
his  grooms,  I  arrived  at  the  county  town  at  twilight,  in  order  to 
be  ready  for  the  stagecoach  the  day  following.  As  soon  as  we 
arrived  at  the  inn,  the  servant  who  waited  upon  me  inquired 
of  the  chamberlain,  in  my  hearing,  what  company  he  had  for  the 
coach.  The  fellow  answered,  <(  Mrs.  Betty  Arable,  the  great  for- 
tune, and  the  widow  her  mother;  a  recruiting  officer  (who  took 
a  place  because  they  were  to  go) ;  young  Squire  Quickset,  her 
cousin  (that  her  mother  wished  her  to  be  married  to) ;  Ephraim 
the  Quaker,  her  guardian;  and  a  gentleman  that  had  studied 
himself  dumb,  from  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley's. w  I  observed  by 
what  he  said  of  myself,  that  according  to  his  office  he  dealt 
much  in  intelligence;  and  doubted  not  but  there  was  some  foun- 
dation for  his  reports  of  the  rest  of  the  company,  as  well  as  for 
the  whimsical  account  he  gave  of  me.  The  next  morning  at 
daybreak  we  were  all  called;  and  I  who  know  my  own  natural 
shyness,  and  endeavor  to  be  as  little  liable  to  be  disputed  with  as 
possible,  dressed  immediately,  that  I  might  make  no  one  wait. 
The  first  preparation  for  our  setting  out  was,  that  the  captain's 
half-pike  was  placed  near  the  coachman,  and  a  drum  behind  the 
coach.  In  the  meantime  the  drummer,  the  captain's  equipage, 
was  very  loud,  (<that  none  of  the  captain's  things  should  be 
placed  so  as  to  be  spoiled >y ;  upon  which  his  cloak  bag  was  fixed 
in  the  seat  of  the  coach,  and  the  captain  himself,  according  to  a 
frequent,  though  invidious  behavior  of  military  men,  ordered  his 
man  to  look  sharp,  that  none  but  one  of  the  ladies  should  have 
the  place  he  had  taken  fronting  the  coach  box. 

We  were  in  some  little  time  fixed  in  out  seats,  and  sat  with 
that  dislike  which  people  not  too  good-natured  usually  conceive 
of  each  other  at  first  sight.  The  coach  jumbled  us  insensibly 
into  some  sort  of  familiarity;    and  we  had  not  moved  above   two 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  93 

miles,  when  the  widow  asked  the  captain  what  success  he  had  in 
his  recruiting.  The  officer,  with  a  frankness  he  believed  very 
graceful,  told  her,  <(  that,  indeed,  he  had  but  very  little  luck,  and 
had  suffered  much  by  desertion,  therefore  should  be  glad  to  end 
his  warfare  in  the  service  of  her  or  her  fair  daughter.  In  a 
word,"  continued  he,  <c  I  am  a  soldier,  and  to  be  plain  is  my 
character:  you  see  me,  madam,  young,  sound,  and  impudent; 
take  me  yourself,  widow,  or  give  me  to  her;  I  will  be  wholly  at 
your  disposal.  I  am  a  soldier  of  fortune,  ha!" — This  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  vain  laugh  of  his  own,  and  a  deep  silence  of  all  the 
rest  of  the  company.  I  had  nothing  left  for  it  but  to  fall  fast 
asleep,  which  I  did  with  all  speed.  <(  Come, "  said  he,  (<  resolve 
upon  it,  we  will  make  a  wedding  at  the  next  town;  we  will  wake 
this  pleasant  companion  who  is  fallen  asleep,  to  be  the  brideman; 
and,"  giving  the  Quaker  a  clap  on  the  knee,  he  concluded,  uThis 
sly  saint,  who,  I  will  warrant,  understands  what  is  what  as  well 
as  you  or  I,  widow,  shall  give  the  bride  as  father."  The  Quaker, 
who  happened  to  be  a  man  of  smartness,  answered,  (<  Friend,  I 
take  it  in  good  part  that  thou  hast  given  me  the  authority  of  a 
father  over  this  comely  and  virtuous  child;  and  I  must  assure 
thee,  that  if  I  have  the  giving  her,  I  shall  not  bestow  her  on 
thee.  Thy  mirth,  friend,  savoreth  of  folly;  thou  art  a  person  of 
a  light  mind;  thy  drum  is  a  type  of  thee,  it  soundeth  because  it 
is  empty.  Verily,  it  is  not  from  thy  fullness,  but  thy  emptiness, 
that  thou  hast  spoken  this  day.  Friend,  friend,  we  have  hired 
this  coach  in  partnership  with  thee,  to  carry  us  to  the  great  city; 
we  cannot  go  any  other  way.  This  worthy  mother  must  hear 
thee,  if  thou  wilt  needs  utter  thy  follies;  we  cannot  help  it, 
friend,  I  say;  if  thou  wilt,  we  must  hear  thee;  but  if  thou  wert 
a  man  of  understanding,  thou  wouldst  not  take  advantage  of  thy 
courageous  countenance  to  abash  us  children  of  peace.  Thou 
art,  thou  sayest,  a  soldier;  give  quarter  to  us,  who  cannot  resist 
thee.  Why  didst  thou  fleer  at  our  friend,  who  feigned  himself 
asleep?  He  said  nothing;  but  how  dost  thou  know  what  he  con- 
taineth  ?  If  thou  speakest  improper  things  in  the  hearing  of  this 
virtuous  young  virgin,  consider  it  as  an  outrage  against  a  dis- 
tressed person  that  cannot  get  from  thee;  to  speak  indiscreetly 
what  we  are  obliged  to  hear,  by  being  hasped  up  with  thee  in 
this  public  vehicle,  is  in  some  degree  assaulting  on  the  highroad." 
Here  Ephraim  paused,  and  the  captain  with  a  happy  and  un- 
common  impudence    (which  can   be   convicted  and   support  itself 


94  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

at  the  same  time),  cries:  (<  Faith,  friend,  I  thank  thee;  I  should 
have  been  a  little  impertinent  if  thou  hadst  not  reprimanded  me. 
Come,  thou  art,  I  see,  a  smoky  old  fellow,  and  I  will  be  very 
orderly  the  ensuing  part  of  my  journey.  I  was  going  to  give 
myself  airs,  but,  ladies,  I  beg  pardon. }> 

The  captain  was  so  little  out  of  humor,  and  our  company  was 
so  far  from  being  soured  by  this  little  ruffle,  that  Ephraim  and 
he  took  a  particular  delight  in  being  agreeable  to  each  other  for 
the  future,  and  assumed  their  different  provinces  in  the  conduct 
of  the  company.  Our  reckonings,  apartments,  and  accommoda- 
tion fell  under  Ephraim;  and  the  captain  looked  to  all  disputes 
upon  the  road,  as  the  good  behavior  of  our  coachman,  and  the 
right  we  had  of  taking  place,  as  going  to  London,  of  all  vehicles 
coming  from  thence.  The  occurrences  we  met  with  were  ordi- 
nary, and  very  little  happened  which  could  entertain  by  the  re- 
lation of  them;  but  when  I  considered  the  company  we  were  in, 
I  took  it  for  no  small  good  fortune  that  the  whole  journey  was 
not  spent  in  impertinences,  which  to  one  part  of  us  might  be  an 
entertainment,  to  the  other  a  suffering.  What,  therefore,  Ephraim 
said  when  we  were  almost  arrived  at  London  had  to  me  an  air, 
not  only  of  good  understanding,  but  good  breeding.  Upon  the 
young  lady's  expressing  her  satisfaction  in  the  journey,  and  de- 
claring how  delightful  it  had  been  to  her,  Ephraim  declared  him- 
self as  follows :  <(  There  is  no  ordinary  part  of  human  life  which 
expresseth  so  much  a  good  mind  and  a  right  inward  man  as  his 
behavior  upon  meeting  with  strangers,  especially  such  as  may 
seem  the  most  unsuitable  companions  to  him;  such  a  man,  when 
he  falleth  in  the  way  with  persons  of  simplicity  and  innocence, 
however  knowing  he  may  be  in  the  ways  of  men,  will  not  vaunt 
himself  thereof,  but  will  the  rather  hide  his  superiority  to  them, 
that  he  may  not  be  painful  unto  them.  My  good  friend, w  con- 
tinued he,  turning  to  the  officer,  (<  thee  and  I  are  to  part  by  and 
by,  and  peradventure  we  may  never  meet  again;  but  be  advised 
by  a  plain  man:  modes  and  apparel  are  but  trifles  to  the  real 
man,  therefore  do  not  think  such  a  man  as  thyself  terrible  for 
thy  garb,  nor  such  a  one  as  me  contemptible  for  mine.  When 
two  such  as  thee  and  I  meet,  with  affections  as  we  ought  to 
have  towards  each  other,  thou  shouldst  rejoice  to  see  my  peace- 
able demeanor,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  see  thy  strength  and 
ability  to  protect  me  in  it.8 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  95 


SIR   ROGER   AGAIN    IN    LONDON 

JEvo  rarissima  nostro 
Simplicitas.  —Ovid.   Ars  Amator  Lib.  I.  241. 

Most  rare  is  now  our  old  simplicity. —  Dry  den. 

Iwas  this  morning  surprised  with  a  great  knocking  at  the  door, 
when    my  landlady's    daughter   came   up  to    me    and   told  me 

that  there  was  a  man  below  desired  to  speak  with  me.  Upon 
my  asking  her  who  it  was,  she  told  me  it  was  a  very  grave 
elderly  person,  but  that  she  did  not  know  his  name.  I  immedi- 
ately went  down  to  him,  and  found  him  to  be  the  coachman  of 
my  worthy  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  He  told  me  that  his 
master  came  to  town  last  night,  and  would  be  glad  to  take  a 
turn  with  me  in  Gray's  Inn  Walks.  As  I  was  wondering  in  my- 
self what  had  brought  Sir  Roger  to  town,  not  having  lately  re- 
ceived any  letter  from  him,  he  told  me  that  his  master  was  come 
up  to  get  a  sight  of  Prince  Eugene,  and  that  he  desired  I  would 
immediately  meet  him. 

I  was  not  a  little  pleased  with  the  curiosity  of  the  old  knight, 
though  I  did  not  much  wonder  at  it,  having  heard  him  say  more 
than  once  in  private  discourse  that  he  looked  upon  Prince  Eu- 
genio  (for  so  the  knight  always  calls  him)  to  be  a  greater  man 
than  Scanderbeg. 

I  was  no  sooner  come  into  Gray's  Inn  Walks,  but  I  heard  my 
friend  upon  the  terrace  hemming  twice  or  thrice  to  himself  with 
great  vigor,  for  he  loves  to  clear  his  pipes  in  good  air  (to  make 
use  of  his  own  phrase),  and  is  not  a  little  pleased  with  any  one 
who  takes  notice  of  the  strength  which  he  still  exerts  in  his 
morning  hems. 

I  was  touched  with  a  secret  joy  at  the  sight  of  the  good  old 
man,  who  before  he  saw  me  was  engaged  in  conversation  with  a 
beggar  man  that  had  asked  an  alms  of  him.  I  could  hear  my 
friend  chide  him  for  not  finding  out  some  work;  but  at  the  same 
time  saw  him  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  give  him  sixpence. 

Our  salutations  were  very  hearty  on  both  sides,  consisting  of 
many  kind  shakes  of  the  hand,  and  several  affectionate  looks 
which  we  cast  upon  one  another.  After  which  the  knight  told 
me  my  good  friend  his  chaplain  was  very  well,  and  much  at  my 
service,  and  that  the  Sunday  before  he  had  made  a  most  incom- 
parable sermon  out  of   Doctor    Barrow.     <(  I  have  left, *  says  he, 


96  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

(<  all  my  affairs  in  his  hands,  and,  being  willing  to  lay  an  obliga- 
tion upon  him,  have  deposited  with  him  thirty  marks,  to  be  dis- 
tributed among  his  poor  parishioners. M 

He  then  proceeded  to  acquaint  me  with  the  welfare  of  Will 
Wimble.  Upon  which  he  put  his  hand  into  his  fob  and  presented 
me  in  his  name  with  a  tobacco  stopper,  telling  me  that  Will  had 
been  busy  all  the  beginning  of  the  winter,  in  turning  great 
quantities  of  them;  and  that  he  made  a  present  of  one  to  every 
gentleman  in  the  country  who  has  good  principles,  and  smokes. 
He  added,  that  poor  Will  was  at  present  under  great  tribulation, 
for  that  Tom  Touchy  had  taken  the  law  of  him  for  cutting  some 
hazel  sticks  out  of  one  of  his  hedges. 

Among  other  pieces  of  news  which  the  knight  brought  from 
his  country  seat,  he  informed  me  that  Moll  White  was  dead,  and 
that  about  a  month  after  her  death  the  wind  was  so  very  high 
that  it  blew  down  the  end  of  one  of  his  barns.  <(  But  for  my 
own  part,  *  says  Sir  Roger,  <(  I  do  not  think  that  the  old  woman 
had  any  hand  in  it. w 

He  afterwards  fell  into  an  account  of  the  diversions  which 
had  passed  in  his  house  during  the  holidays,  for  Sir  Roger,  after 
the  laudable  custom  of  his  ancestors,  always  keeps  open  house  at 
Christmas.  I  learned  from  him  that  he  had  killed  eight  fat  hogs 
for  the  season,  that  he  had  dealt  about  his  chines  very  liberally 
amongst  his  neighbors,  and  that  in  particular  he  had  sent  a 
string  of  hogs-puddings  with  a  pack  of  cards  to  every  poor  fam- 
ily in  the  parish.  (<  I  have  often  thought, w  says  Sir  Roger,  <(  it 
happens  very  well  that  Christmas  should  fall  out  in  the  middle 
of  the  winter.  It  is  the  most  dead  uncomfortable  time  of  the 
year,  when  the  poor  people  would  suffer  very  much  from  their 
poverty  and  cold,  if  they  had  not  good  cheer,  warm  fares,  and 
Christmas  gambols  to  support  them.  I  love  to  rejoice  their  poor 
hearts  at  this  season,  and  to  see  the  whole  village  merry  in  my 
great  hall.  I  allow  a  double  quantity  of  malt  to  my  small  beer, 
and  set  it  a  running  for  twelve  days  to  every  one  that  calls  for 
it.  I  have  always  a  piece  of  cold  beef  and  a  mince  pie  upon  the 
table,  and  am  wonderfully  pleased  to  see  my  tenants  pass  away 
a  whole  evening  in  playing  their  innocent  tricks,  and  smutting 
one  another.  Our  friend  Will  Wimble  is  as  merry  as  any  of 
them,  and  shows  a  thousand  roguish  tricks  upon  these  occasions. w 

I  was  very  much  delighted  with  the  reflection  of  my  old 
friend,  which  carried  so  much  goodness  in  it.      He  then  launched 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  97 

out  into  the  praise  of  the  late  Act  of  Parliament  for  securing 
the  Church  of  England,  and  told  me  with  great  satisfaction  that 
he  believed  it  already  began  to  take  effect,  for  that  a  rigid  Dis- 
senter, who  chanced  to  dine  at  his  house  on  Christmas  day,  had 
been  observed  to  eat  very  plentifully  of  his  plum  porridge. 

After  having  dispatched  all  our  country  matters,  Sir  Roger 
made  several  inquiries  concerning  the  club,  and  particularly  of 
his  old  antagonist  Sir  Andrew  Freeport.  He  asked  me  with  a 
kind  of  smile  whether  Sir  Andrew  had  not  taken  advantage  of 
his  absence  to  vent  among  them  some  of  his  republican  doctrines; 
but  soon  after,  gathering  up  his  countenance  into  a  more  than 
ordinary  seriousness,  (<  Tell  me  truly,*  says  he,  "don't  you  think 
Sir  Andrew  had  a  hand  in  the  Pope's  Procession  ?  n  —  but  with- 
out giving  me  time  to  answer  him, —  "Well,  well,0  says  he,  "I 
know  you  are  a  wary  man,  and  do  not  care  to  talk  of  public 
matters. ° 

The  knight  then  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  Prince  Eugenio,  and 
made  me  promise  to  get  him  a  stand  in  some  convenient  place 
where  he  might  have  a  full  sight  of  that  extraordinary  man, 
whose  presence  does  so  much  honor  to  the  British  nation.  He 
dwelt  very  long  on  the  praises  of  this  great  general,  and  I  found 
that,  since  I  was  with  him  in  the  country,  he  had  drawn  many 
observations  together  out  of  his  reading  in  Baker's  "Chronicle,0 
and  other  authors,  who  always  lie  in  his  hall  window,  which  very 
much  redound  to  the  honor  of  this  prince. 

Having  passed  away  the.  greatest  part  of  the  morning  in  hear- 
ing the  knight's  reflections,  which  were  partly  private,  and  partly 
political,  he  asked  me  if  I  would  smoke  a  pipe  with  him  over 
a  dish  of  coffee  at  Squire's.  As  I  love  the  old  man,  I  take 
delight  in  complying  with  everything  that  is  agreeable  to  him, 
and  accordingly  waited  on  him  to  the  coffeehouse,  where  his 
venerable  figure  drew  upon  us  the  eyes  of  the  whole  room.  He 
had  no  sooner  seated  himself  at  the  upper  end  of  the  high  table, 
but  he  called  for  a  clean  pipe,  a  paper  of  tobacco,  a  dish  of 
coffee,  a  wax  candle,  and  the  Supplement,  with  such  an  air  of 
cheerfulness  and  good-humor,  that  all  the  boys  in  the  coffee- 
room  (who  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  serving  him)  were  at  once 
employed  on  his  several  errands,  insomuch  that  nobody  else  could 
come  at  a  dish  of  tea  till  the  knight  had  got  all  his  conven- 
iences about  him. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 
1—7 


98  JOSEPH    ADDISON 


SIR    ROGER    IN   WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

Ire  tanien  rest  at,  Nunia  quo  devenit  et  Ancus. 

—  Hor.  Ep.  vi.,  Lib.  I.  27. 

With  Ancus  and  with  Numa,  kings  of  Rome, 
We  must  descend  into  the  silent  tomb. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  told  me  t'other  night,  that 
he  had  been  reading  my  paper  upon  Westminster  Abbey, 
in  which,  says  he,  there  are  a  great  many  ingenious  fan- 
cies. He  told  me  at  the  same  time,  that  he  observed  I  had 
promised  another  paper  upon  the  tombs,  and  that  he  should  be 
glad  to  go  and  see  them  with  me,  not  having  visited  them  since 
he  had  read  history.  I  could  not  imagine  how  this  came  into 
the  knight's  head,  till  I  recollected  that  he  had  been  very  busy 
all  last  summer  upon  Baker's  <(  Chronicle, *  which  he  has  quoted 
several  times  in  his  disputes  with  Sir  Andrew  Freeport  since  his 
last  coming  to  town.  Accordingly  I  promised  to  call  upon  him 
the  next  morning,  that  we  might  go  together  to  the  abbey. 

I  found  the  knight  under  his  butler's  hands,  who  always 
shaves  him.  He  was  no  sooner  dressed  than  he  called  for  a  glass 
of  the  widow  Truby's  water,  which  he  told  me  he  always  drank 
before  he  went  abroad.  He  recommended  to  me  a  dram  of  it 
at  the  same  time,  with  so  much  heartiness,  that  I  could  not  for- 
bear drinking  it.  As  soon  as  I  had  got  it  down,  I  found  it  very 
unpalatable;  upon  which  the  knight,  observing  that  I  had  made 
several  wry  faces,  told  me  that  he  knew  I  should  not  like  it  at 
first,  but  that  it  was  the  best  thing  in  the  world  against  the  stone 
or  gravel. 

I  could  have  wished  indeed  that  he  had  acquainted  me  with 
the  virtues  of  it  sooner;  but  it  was  too  late  to  complain,  and  I 
knew  what  he  had  done  was  out  of  good-will.  Sir  Roger  told 
me  further,  that  he  looked  upon  it  to  be  very  good  for  a  man 
whilst  he  stayed  in  town,  to  keep  off  infection,  and  that  he  got 
together  a  quantity  of  it  upon  the  first  news  of  the  sickness 
being  at  Dantzick;  when  of  a  sudden  turning  short  to  one  of  his 
servants,  who  stood  behind  him,  he  bid  him  call  a  hackney  coach, 
and  take  care  it  was  an  elderly  man  that  drove  it. 

He  then  resumed  his  discourse  upon  Mrs.  Truby's  water,  tell- 
ing me  that  the  widow  Truby  was  one  who  did  more  good  than 
all  the  doctors  and  apothecaries  in  the  country;  that  she  distilled 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  99 

every  poppy  that  grew  within  five  miles  of  her;  that  she  distrib- 
uted her  water  gratis  among  all  sorts  of  people:  to  which  the 
knight  added  that  she  had  a  very  great  jointure,  and  that  the 
whole  country  would  fain  have  it  a  match  between  him  and  her; 
«and  truly, *  says  Sir  Roger,  (< if  I  had  not  been  engaged,  per- 
haps I  could  not  have  done  better. M 

His  discourse  was  broken  off  by  his  man's  telling  him  he  had 
called  a  coach.  Upon  our  going  to  it,  after  having  cast  his  eye 
upon  the  wheels,  he  asked  the  coachman  if  his  axletree  was  good; 
upon  the  fellow's  telling  him  he  would  warrant  it,  the  knight 
turned  to  me,  told  me  he  looked  like  an  honest  man,  and  went 
in  without  further  ceremony. 

We  had  not  gone  far,  when  Sir  Roger,  popping  out  his  head, 
called  the  coachman  down  from  his  box,  and,  upon  his  presenting 
himself  at  the  window,  asked  him  if  he  smoked.  As  I  was  con- 
sidering what  this  would  end  in,  he  bid  him  stop  by  the  way 
at  any  good  tobacconist's  and  take  in  a  roll  of  their  best  Vir- 
ginia. Nothing  material  happened  in  the  remaining  part  of  our 
journey,  till  we  were  set  down  at  the  west  end  of  the  abbey. 

As  we  went  up  the  body  of  the  church,  the  knight  pointed  at 
the  trophies  upon  one  of  the  new  monuments,  and  cried  out,  (<  A 
brave  man,  I  warrant  him ! }>  Passing  afterwards  by  Sir  Clouds- 
ley  Shovel,  he  flung  his  hand  that  way  and  cried,  (<  Sir  Cloudsley 
Shovel!  a  very  gallant  man!"  As  we  stood  before  Busby's  tomb, 
the  knight  uttered  himself  again  after  the  same  manner:  <(  Doctor 
Busby!  a  great  man:  he  whipped  my  grandfather;  a  very  great 
man !  I  should  have  gone  to  him  myself,  if  I  had  not  been  a 
blockhead:  a  very  great  man!  >} 

We  were  immediately  conducted  into  the  little  chapel  on  the 
right  hand.  Sir  Roger,  planting  himself  at  our  historian's  elbow, 
was  very  attentive  to  everything  he  said,  particularly  to  the  ac- 
count he  gave  us  of  the  lord  who  had  cut  off  the  king  of  Moroc- 
co's head.  Among  several  other  figures,  he  was  very  well  pleased 
to  see  the  statesman  Cecil  upon  his  knees;  and,  concluding  them 
all  to  be  great  men,  was  conducted  to  the  figure  which  represents 
that  martyr  to  good  housewifery  who  died  by  the  prick  of  a 
needle.  Upon  our  interpreter's  telling  us  that  she  was  a  maid 
of  honor  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  knight  was  very  inquisitive  into 
her  name  and  family;  and,  after  having  regarded  her  finger  for 
some  time,  (<  I  wonder, w  says  he,  (<  that  Sir  Richard  Baker  said 
nothing  of  her  in  his  (  Chronicled  B 


ioo  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

We  were  then  conveyed  to  the  two  coronation  chairs,  where 
my  old  friend,  after  having  heard  that  the  stone  underneath  the 
most  ancient  of  them,  which  was  brought  from  Scotland,  was 
called  Jacob's  Pillar,  sat  himself  down  in  the  chair,  and,  looking 
like  the  figure  of  an  old  Gothic  king,  asked  our  interpreter  what 
authority  they  had  to  say  that  Jacob  had  ever  been  in  Scotland. 
The  fellow,  instead  of  returning  him  an  answer,  told  him  that 
he  hoped  his  honor  would  pay  his  forfeit.  I  could  observe  Sir 
Roger  a  little  ruffled  upon  being  thus  trepanned;  but  our  guide 
not  insisting  upon  his  demand,  the  knight  soon  recovered  his 
good  humor,  and  whispered  in  my  ear,  that  if  Will  Wimble  were 
with  us,  and  saw  those  two  chairs,  it  would  go  hard  but  he  would 
get  a  tobacco  stopper  out  of  one  or  t'other  of  them. 

Sir  Roger,  in  the  next  place,  laid  his  hand  upon  Edward  the 
Third's  sword,  and,  leaning  upon  the  pommel  of  it,  gave  us  the 
whole  history  of  the  Black  Prince,  concluding  that,  in  Sir  Richard 
Baker's  opinion,  Edward  III.  was  one  of  the  greatest  princes 
that  ever  sat  upon  the  English  throne* 

We  were  then  shown  Edward  the  Confessor's  tomb,  upon 
which  Sir  Roger  acquainted  us  that  he  was  the  first  who  touched 
for  the  evil;  and  afterwards  Hemy  the  Fourth's,  upon  which  he 
shook  his  head  and  told  us  there  was  fine  reading  in  the  casual- 
ties of  that  reign. 

Our  conductor  then  pointed  to  that  monument  where  there  is 
the  figure  of  one  of  our  English  kings  without  a  head ;  and  upon 
giving  us  to  know  that  the  head,  which  was  of  beaten  silver,  had 
been  stolen  away  several  years  since,  — (<  Some  whig,  I'll  warrant 
you,w  says  Sir  Roger;  (<  you  ought  to  lock  up  your  kings  better; 
they  will  carry  off  the  body  too,  if  you  don't  take   care.w 

The  glorious  names  of  Henry  V.  and  Queen  Elizabeth  gave 
the  knight  great  opportunities  of  shining,  and  of  doing  justice  to 
Sir  Richard  Baker,  who,  as  our  knight  observed  with  some  sur- 
prise, had  a  great  many  kings  in  him  whose  monuments  he  had 
not  seen  in  the  abbey. 

For  my  own  part,  I  could  not  but  be  pleased  to  see  the  knight 
show  such  an  honest  passion  for  the  glory  of  his  country,  and 
such  a  respectful  gratitude  to  the  memory  of  its  princes. 

I  must  not  omit,  that  the  benevolence  of  my  good  old  friend, 
which  flows  out  towards  every  one  he  converses  with,  made  him 
very  kind  to  our  interpreter,  whom  he  looked  upon  as  an  extraor- 
dinary man :  for  which  reason  he  shook  him  by  the  hand  at  part- 


JOSEPH    ADDISON  IOI 

ing,  telling'  him   that  he  should   be   very  glad    to    see    him   at  his 

lodgings  in  Norfolk  buildings,   and    talk   over   these    matters  with 

him  more  at  leisure. 

Complete  from  the  Spectator. 


SIR    ROGER'S   VIEWS   ON    BEARDS 
Stolidam  prccbet  tibi  vellere  barbam.  —  Pers.  Sat.  II.  28. 

He  holds  his  foolish  beard  for  thee  to  pluck. 

When  I  was  last  with  my  friend  Sir  Roger  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  I  observed  that  he  stood  longer  than  ordinary 
before  the  bust  of  a  venerable  old  man.  I  was  at  a  loss 
to  guess  the  reason  of  it;  when,  after  some  time,  he  pointed  to 
the  figure,  and  asked  me  if  I  did  not  think  that  our  forefathers 
looked  much  wiser  in  their  beards  than  we  do  without  them. 
<(  For  my  part, B  says  he,  (<  when  I  am  walking  in  my  gallery  in 
the  country,  and  see  my  ancestors,  who  many  of  them  died  be- 
fore they  were  of  my  age,  I  cannot  forbear  regarding  them  as 
so  many  old  patriarchs,  and  at  the  same  time  looking  upon  my- 
self as  an  idle  smock-faced  young  fellow.  I  love  to  see  your 
Abrahams,  your  Isaacs,  and  your  Jacobs,  as  we  have  them  in  old 
pieces  of  tapestry,  with  beards  below  their  girdles,  that  cover 
half  the  hangings. w  The  knight  added,  if  I  would  recommend 
beards  in  one  of  my  papers,  and  endeavor  to  restore  human  faces 
to  their  ancient  dignity,  that,  upon  a  month's  warning,  he  would 
undertake  to  lead  up  the   fashion  himself  in  a  pair  of  whiskers. 

I  smiled  at  my  friend's  fancy;  but,  after  we  parted,  could  not 
forbear  reflecting  on  the  metamorphosis  our  faces  have  under- 
gone in  this  particular. 

The  beard,  conformable  to  the  notion  of  my  friend,  Sir  Roger, 
was  for  many  ages  looked  upon  as  the  type  of  wisdom.  Lucian 
more  than  once  rallies  the  philosophers  of  his  time,  who  endeav- 
ored to  rival  one  another  in  beard;  and  represents  a  learned 
man,  who  stood  for  a  professorship  in  philosophy,  as  unqualified 
for  it  by  the  shortness  of  his  beard. 

^Elian,  in  his  account  of  Zoilus,  the  pretended  critic,  who 
wrote  against  Homer  and  Plato,  and  thought  himself  wiser  than 
all  who  had  gone  before  him,  tells  us  that  this  Zoilus  had  a  very 
long  beard  that  hung  down  upon  his  breast,  but  no  hair  upon 
his  head,  which  he  always  kept  close  shaved,  regarding,  it  seems, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 


102  JOSEPH    ADDISON 

the  hairs  of  his  head  as  so  many  suckers,  which,  if  they  had 
been  suffered  to  grow,  might  have  drawn  away  the  nourishment 
from  his  chin,  and  by  that  means  have  starved  his  beard. 

I  have  read  somewhere  that  one  of  the  popes  refused  to  ac- 
cept an  edition  of  a  saint's  works,  which  was  presented  to  him, 
because  the  saint,  in  his  effigies  before  the  book,  was  drawn  with- 
out a  beard. 

We  see  by  these  instances  what  homage  the  world  has  form- 
erly paid  to  beards;  and  that  a  barber  was  not  then  allowed  to 
make  those  depredations  on  the  faces  of  the  learned,  which  have 
been  permitted  him  of  later  years. 

Accordingly  several  wise  nations  have  been  so  extremely  jeal- 
ous of  the  least  ruffle  offered  to  their  beard,  that  they  seem  to 
have  fixed  the  point  of  honor  principally  in  that  part.  The 
Spaniards  were  wonderfully  tender  in  this  particular.  Don  Que- 
vedo,  in  his  third  vision  on  the  last  judgment,  has  carried  the 
humor  very  far,  when  he  tells  us  that  one  of  his  vainglorious 
countrymen,  after  having  received  sentence,  was  taken  into  cus- 
tody by  a  couple  of  evil  spirits ;  but  that  his  guides  happening  to 
disorder  his  mustaschoes,  they  were  forced  to  recompose  them 
with  a  pair  of  curling  irons,  before  they  could  get  him  to  file  off. 

If  we  look  into  the  history  of  our  own  nation,  we  shall  find 
that  the  beard  flourished  in  the  Saxon  heptarchy,  but  was  very 
much  discouraged  under  the  Norman  line.  It  shot  out,  however, 
from  time  to  time,  in  several  reigns  under  different  shapes.  The 
last  effort  it  made  seems  to  have  been  in  Queen  Mary's  days,  as 
the  curious  reader  may  find  if  he  please  to  peruse  the  figures  of 
Cardinal  Pole  and  Bishop  Gardiner;  though,  at  the  same  time,  I 
think  it  may  be  questioned,  if  zeal  against  popery  has  not  in- 
duced our  Protestant  painters  to  extend  the  beards  of  these  two 
persecutors  beyond  their  natural  dimensions,  in  order  to  make 
them  appear  the  more  terrible. 

I  find  but  few  beards  worth  taking  notice  of  in  the  reign  of 
King  James  I. 

During  the  civil  wars  there  appeared  one,  which  makes  too 
great  a  figure  in  story  to  be  passed  over  in  silence:  I  mean  that 
of  the  redoubted  <(  Hudibras,"  an  account  of  which  Butler  has 
transmitted  to  posterity  in  the  following  lines :  — 


((His  tawny  beard  was  th'  equal  grace 
Both  of  his  wisdom  and  his  face; 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  103 

In  cut  and  dye  so  like  a  tile, 
A  sudden  view  it.  would  beguile; 
The  upper  part  thereof  was  whey, 
The  nether  orange  mixt  with  gray.w 

The  whisker  continued  for  some  time  among  us  after  the  ex- 
piration of  beards;  but  this  is  a  subject  which  I  shall  not  here 
enter  upon,  having  discussed  it  at  large-  in  a  distinct  treatise, 
which  I  keep  by  me  in  manuscript,   upon  the  mustaschoe. 

If  my  friend  Sir  Roger's  project  of  introducing  beards  should 
take  effect,  I  fear  the  luxury  of  the  present  age  would  make  it 
a  very  expensive  fashion.  There  is  no  question  but  the  beaux 
would  soon  provide  themselves  with  false  ones  of  the  lightest 
colors  and  the  most  immoderate  lengths.  A  fair  beard,  of  the 
tapestry  size  Sir  Roger  seems  to  approve,  could  not  come  under 
twenty  guineas.  The  famous  golden  beard  of  zEsculapius  would 
hardly  be  more  valuable  than  one  made  in  the  extravagance  of 
the  fashion. 

Besides,  we  are  not  certain  that  the  ladies  would  not  come 
into  the  mode,  when  they  take  the  air  on  horseback.  They  al- 
ready appear  in  hats  and  feathers,  coats  and  periwigs,  and  I  see 
no  reason  why  we  should  not  suppose  that  they  would  have  their 
riding  beards  on  the  same  occasion. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


SIR    ROGER   AT   THE    PLAY 

Respicere  exemplar  vittz  moruntque  jubebo 
Doctum  imitatorem  et  veras  June  ducere  voces. 

—  Hor.  Ars  Poet.  327. 

Keep  Nature's  great  original  in  view, 
And  thence  the  living  images  pursue. 

—  Francis. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  when  we  last  met  together 
at  the  club,  told  me  that  he  had  a  great  mind  to  see  the 
new  tragedy  [The  Distrest  Mother]  with  me,  assuring 
me  at  the  same  time  that  he  had  not  been  at  a  play  these 
twenty  years.  "The  last  I  saw,"  said  Sir  Roger,  (( was  *  The 
Committee, *  which  I  should  not  have  gone  to  neither,  had 
not    I    been    told    beforehand    that    it    was    a    good    Church    of 


104  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

England  comedy. "  He  then  proceeded  to  inquire  of  me  who 
this  distrest  mother  was;  and  upon  hearing  that  she  was 
Hector's  widow,  he  told  me  that  her  husband  was  a  brave 
man,  and  that  when  he  was  a  schoolboy  he  had  read  his  life 
at  the  end  of  the  dictionary.  My  friend  asked  me  in  the 
next  place,  if  there  would  not  be  some  danger  in  coming  home 
late,  in  case  the  Mohocks  should  be  abroad.  tt  I  assure  you," 
says  he,  (( I  thought  I  had  fallen  into  their  hands  last  night ;  for 
I  observed  two  or  three  lusty  black  men  that  followed  me  half 
way  up  Fleet-street,  and  mended  their  pace  behind  me,  in  pro- 
portion as  I  put  on  to  get  away  from  them.  You  must  know," 
continued  the  knight  with  a  smile,  (<  I  fancied  they  had  a  mind 
to  hunt  me,  for  I  remember  an  honest  gentleman  in  my  neigh- 
borhood, who  was  served  such  a  trick  in  King  Charles  the  Sec- 
ond's time,  for  which  reason  he  has  not  ventured  himself  in  town 
ever  since.  I  might  have  shown  them  very  good  sport,  had  this 
been  their  design;  for,  as  I  am  an  old  fox-hunter,  I  should  have 
turned  and  dodged,  and  have  played  them  a  thousand  tricks  they 
had  never  seen  in  their  lives  before."  Sir  Roger  added  that  (<if 
these  gentlemen  had  any  such  intention,  they  did  not  succeed 
very  well  in  it;  for  I  threw  them  out,"  says  he,  <(at  the  end  of 
Norfolk-street,  where  I  doubled  the  corner,  and  got  shelter  in 
my  lodgings  before  they  could  imagine  what  was  become  of  me. 
However,"  says  the  knight,  <(if  Captain  Sentry  will  make  one 
with  us  to-morrow  night,  and  you  will  both  of  you  call  upon  me 
about  four  o'clock,  that  we  may  be  at  the  house  before  it  is  full, 
I  will  have  my  own  coach  in  readiness  to  attend  you,  for  John 
tells  me  he  has  got  the  fore-wheels  mended." 

The  captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  meet  me  there  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour,  bid  Sir  Roger  fear  nothing,  for  that  he  had  put  on 
the  same  sword  which  he  made  use  of  at  the  battle  of  Steenkirk. 
Sir  Roger's  servants,  and  among  the  rest  my  old  friend  the  but- 
ler, had,  I  found,  provided  themselves  with  good  oaken  plants,  to 
attend  their  master  upon  this  occasion.  When  we  had  placed 
him  in  his  coach,  with  myself  at  his  left  hand,  the  captain  before 
him,  and  his  butler  at  the  head  of  his  footmen  in  the  rear,  we 
convoyed  him  in  safety  to  the  playhouse,  where,  after  having 
marched  up  the  entry  in  good  order,  the  captain  and  I  went  in 
with  him,  and  seated  him  betwixt  us  in  the  pit.  As  soon  as  the 
house  was  full,  and  the  candles  lighted,  my  old  friend  stood  up, 
and  looked  about  him  with  that  pleasure  which  a  mind  seasoned 


JOSEPH    ADDISON  105 

with  humanity  naturally  feels  in  itself  at  the  sight  of  a  multitude 
of  people  who  seem  pleased  with  one  another,  and  partake  of 
the  same  common  entertainment.  I  could  not  but  fancy  to  my- 
self, as  the  old  man  stood  up  in  the  middle  of  the  pit,  that  he 
made  a  very  proper  centre  to  a  tragic  audience.  Upon  the  en- 
tering of  Pyrrhus,  the  knight  told  me  that  he  did  not  believe 
the  king  of  France  himself  had  a  better  strut.  I  was,  indeed, 
very  attentive  to  my  old  friend's  remarks,  because  I  looked  upon 
them  as  a  piece  of  natural  criticism,  and  was  well  pleased  to 
hear  him,  at  the  conclusion  of  almost  every  scene,  telling  me  that 
he  could  not  imagine  how  the  play  would  end.  One  while  he 
appeared  much  concerned  for  Andromache;  and  in  a  little  while 
after  as  much  for  Hermione,  and  was  extremely  puzzled  to  think 
what  would  become  of  Pyrrhus. 

When  Sir  Roger  saw  Andromache's  obstinate  refusal  to  her 
lover's  importunities,  he  whispered  me  in  the  ear  that  he  was 
sure  she  would  never  have  him;  to  which  he  added,  with  a  more 
than  ordinary  vehemence,  <(  You  can't  imagine,  sir,  what  it  is  to 
have  to  do  with  a  widow. B  Upon  Pyrrhus's  threatening  after- 
wards to  leave  her,  the  knight  shook  his  head  and  muttered  to 
himself:  <(Aye,  do  if  you  can.})  This  part  dwelt  so  much  upon  my 
friend's  imagination  that  at  the  close  of  the  third  act,  as  I  was 
thinking  of  something  else,  he  whispered  me  in  my  ear:  <(  These 
widows,  sir,  are  the  most  perverse  creatures  in  the  world.  But 
pray,w  says  he,  <(  you  that  are  a  critic,  is  the  play  according  to 
your  dramatic  rules,  as  you  call  them  ?  Should  your  people  in 
tragedy  always  talk  to  be  understood  ?  Why,  there  is  not  a  single 
sentence  in  this  play  that  I  do  not  know  the  meaning  of. " 

The  fourth  act  very  luckily  began  before  I  had  time  to  give 
the  old  gentleman  an  answer.  "Well,0  says  the  knight,  sitting 
down  with  great  satisfaction,  (<  I  suppose  we  are  now  to  see  Hec- 
tor's ghost. w  He  then  renewed  his  attention,  and,  from  time  to 
time  fell  a-praising  the  widow.  He  made,  indeed,  a  little  mis- 
take as  to  one  of  her  pages,  whom  at  his  first  entering  he  took 
for  Astyanax,  but  quickly  set  himself  right  in  that  particular, 
though,  at  the  same  time,  he  owned  he  should  have  been  very 
glad  to  have  seen  the  little  boy,  who,  says  he,  must  needs  be  a 
very  fine  child  by  the  account  that  is  given  of  him.  Upon  Her- 
mione's  going  off  with  a  menace  to  Pyrrhus,  the  audience  gave  a 
loud  clap,  to  which  Sir  Roger  added:  (<  On  my  word,  a  notable 
young  baggage ! * 


106  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

As  there  was  a  very  remarkable  silence  and  stillness  in  the 
audience  during  the  whole  action,  it  was  natural  for  them  to 
take  the  opportunity  of  the  intervals  between  the  acts  to  express 
their  opinion  of  the  players,  and  of  their  respective  parts.  Sir 
Roger,  hearing  a  cluster  of  them  praise  Orestes,  struck  in  with 
them,  and  told  them  that  he  thought  his  friend  Pylades  was  a 
very  sensible  man.  As  they  were  afterwards  applauding  Pyrrhus, 
Sir  Roger  put  in  a  second  time.  <(And  let  me  tell  you,w  says 
he,  <(  though  he  speaks  but  little,  I  like  the  old  fellow  in  whis- 
kers as  well  as  any  of  them."  Captain  Sentry,  seeing  two  or 
three  wags  who  sat  near  us  lean  with  an  attentive  ear  towards 
Sir  Roger,  and  fearing  lest  they  should  smoke  the  knight,  plucked 
him  by  the  elbow,  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear,  that 
lasted  till  the  opening  of  the  fifth  act.  The  knight  was  wonder- 
fully attentive  to  the  account  which  Orestes  gives  of  Pyrrhus's 
death,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  it  told  me  it  was  such  a  bloody 
piece  of  work  that  he  was  glad  it  was  not  done  upon  the  stage. 
Seeing  afterwards  Orestes  in  his  raving  fit,  he  grew  more  than 
ordinarily  serious,  and  took  occasion  to  moralize  (in  his  way) 
upon  an  evil  conscience,  adding  that  Orestes,  in  his  madness, 
looked  as  if  he  saw  something. 

As  we  were  the  first  that  came  into  the  house,  so  we  were 
the  last  that  went  out  of  it,  being  resolved  to  have  a  clear  pas- 
sage for  our  old  friend,  whom  we  did  not  care  to  venture  among 
the  justling  of  the  crowd.  Sir  Roger  went  out  fully  satisfied 
with  his  entertainment,  and  we  guarded  him  to  his  lodging  in 
the  same  manner  that  we  brought  him  to  the  playhouse,  being 
highly  pleased  for  my  own  part,  not  only  with  the  performance 
of  the  excellent  piece  which  had  been  presented,  but  with  the 
satisfaction  which  it  had  given  to  the  old  man. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  107 


DEATH    OF   SIR   ROGER 

Heu  fiietas  !  heu  prisca  fides  ! 

—  Virg.  iEn.  VI.  878. 

Mirror  of  ancient  faith! 

Undaunted  worth !     Inviolable  truth ! 

—  Dry  den. 

[With  the  punctuation,  spelling,  and  capitalization  of  the  original  Spectator.] 

We  last  Night  received  a  Piece  of  ill  News  at  our  Club 
which  very  sensibly  afflicted  every  one  of  us.  I  question 
not  but  my  Readers  themselves  will  be  troubled  at  the 
hearing  of  it.  To  keep  them  no  longer  in  Suspense,  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  is  dead.  He  departed  this  Life  at  his  House  in 
the  Country  after  a  few  Weeks  Sickness.  Sir  Andrew  Freeport 
has  a  Letter  from  one  of  his  Correspondents  in  those  Parts,  that 
informs  him  the  old  Man  caught  a  Cold  at  the  County  Sessions, 
as  he  was  very  warmly  promoting  an  Address  of  his  own  penning, 
in  which  he  succeeded  according  to  his  Wishes.  But  this  Partic- 
ular comes  from  a  Whig-Justice  of  Peace,  who  was  always  Sir 
Roger's  Enemy  and  Antagonist.  I  have  Letters  both  from  the 
Chaplain  and  Captain  Sentry  which  mention  nothing  of  it,  but  are 
filled  with  many  Particulars  to  the  Honour  of  the  good  old  Man. 
I  have  likewise  a  Letter  from  the  Butler,  who  took  so  much  Care 
of  me  last  Summer  when  I  was  at  the  Knight's  House.  As  my 
Friend  the  Butler  mentions,  in  the  Simplicity  of  his  Heart,  sev- 
eral Circumstances  the  others  have  passed  over  in  Silence,  I  shall 
give  my  Reader  a  Copy  of  his  Letter  without  any  Alteration  or 
Diminution:  — 

Honoured  Sir:  — 

Knowing  that  you  was  my  old  Master's  good  Friend,  I  could  not 
forbear  sending  you  the  melancholy  News  of  his  Death,  which  has 
afflicted  the  whole  Country,  as  well  as  his  poor  Servants,  who  loved 
him,  I  may  say,  better  than  we  did  our  Lives.  I  am  afraid  he  caught 
his  Death  at  the  last  County  Sessions,  where  he  would  go  to  see  Justice 
done  to  a  poor  Widow  Woman,  and  her  Fatherless  Children,  that  had 
been  wronged  by  a  neighbouring  Gentleman ;  for  you  know,  Sir,  my 
good  Master  was  always  the  poor  Man's  Friend.  Upon  his  coming 
home,  the  first  Complaint  he  made  was,  that  he  had  lost  his  Roast- 
Beef   Stomach,  not  being  able  to  touch  a  Sirloin,  which  was  served 


ioS  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

up  according  to  Custom;  and  you  know  he  used  to  take  great  Delight 
in  it.  From  that  time  forward  he  grew  worse  and  worse,  but  still 
kept  a  good  Heart  to  the  last.  Indeed,  we  were  once  in  great  Hope 
of  his  Recovery,  upon  a  kind  Message  that  was  sent  him  from  the 
Widow  Lady  whom  he  had  made  love  to  the  Forty  last  Years  of  his 
Life;  but  this  only  proved  a  Light'ning  before  Death.  He  has  be- 
queathed to  this  Lady,  as  a  token  of  his  Love,  a  great  Pearl  Neck- 
lace, and  a  Couple  of  Silver  Bracelets  set  with  Jewels,  which  belonged 
to  my  good  old  Lady  his  Mother:  He  has  bequeathed  the  fine  white 
Gelding,  that  he  used  to  ride  a  hunting  upon,  to  his  Chaplain,  be- 
cause he  thought  he  would  be  kind  to  him,  and  has  left  you  all  his 
Books.  He  has,  moreover,  bequeathed  to  the  Chaplain  a  very  pretty 
Tenement  with  good  Lands  about  it.  It  being  a  very  cold  Day  when 
he  made  his  Will,  he  left  for  Mourning,  to  every  Man  in  the  Parish, 
a  great  Frize-Coat,  and  to  every  Woman  a  black  Riding-hood.  It 
was  a  most  moving  Sight  to  see  him  take  leave  of  his  poor  Servants, 
commending  us  all  for  our  Fidelity,  whilst  we  were  not  able  to  speak 
a  Word  for  weeping.  As  we  most  of  us  are  grown  Gray-headed  in 
our  Dear  Master's  Service,  he  has  left  us  Pensions  and  Legacies, 
which  we  may  live  very  comfortably  upon,  the  remaining  part  of  our 
Days.  He  has  bequeath'd  a  great  deal  more  in  Charity,  which  is  not 
yet  come  to  my  Knowledge,  and  it  is  peremptorily  said  in  the  Parish, 
that  he  has  left  Mony  to  build  a  Steeple  to  the  Church ;  for  he  was 
heard  to  say  some  time  ago,  that  if  he  lived  two  Years  longer,  Cov- 
erly  Church  should  have  a  Steeple  to  it.  The  Chaplain  tells  every 
body  that  he  made  a  very  good  End,  and  never  speaks  of  him  with- 
out Tears.  He  was  buried,  according  to  his  own  Directions,  among 
the  Family  of  the  Coverly's,  on  the  Left  Hand  of  his  father  Sir 
Arthur.  The  Coffin  was  carried  by  Six  of  his  Tenants,  and  the  Pall 
held  up  by  Six  of  the  Quorum :  The  whole  Parish  follow'd  the  Corps 
with  heavy  Hearts,  and  in  their  Mourning  Suits,  the  Men  in  Frize, 
and  the  Women  in  Riding-Hoods.  Captain  Sentry,  my  Master's 
Nephew,  has  taken  Possession  of  the  Hall-House  and  the  whole 
Estate. 

When  my  old  Master  saw  him  a  little  before  his  Death,  he  shook 
him  by  the  Hand,  and  wished  him  Joy  of  the  Estate  which  was  fall- 
ing to  him,  desiring  him  only  to  make  good  Use  of  it,  and  to  pay 
the  several  Legacies,  and  the  Gifts  of  Charity  which  he  told  him  he 
had  left  as  Quitrents  upon  the  Estate.  The  Captain  truly  seems  a 
courteous  Man,  though  he  says  but  little.  He  makes  much  of  those 
whom  my  Master  loved,  and  shows  great  Kindness  to  the  old  House- 
dog, that  you  know  my  poor  Master  was  so  fond  of.  It  would  have 
gone  to  your  Heart  to  have  heard  the  Moans  the  dumb  Creature 
made  on  the  Day  of  my  Master's  Death.     He  has  ne'er  joyed  himself 


JOSEPH    ADDISON  109 

since;   no  more  has  any  of  us.     'Twas  the  melancholiest  Day  for  the 
poor  People  that  ever  happened  in  Worcestershire.    This  being  all  from, 

Honoured  Sir, 
Your  most  Sorrowful  Servant, 

Edward  Biscuit. 

P.  S.  My  Master  desired,  some  Weeks  before  he  died,  that  a 
Book  which  comes  up  to  you  by  the  Carrier  should  be  given  to  Sir 
Andrew  Freeport,  in  his  Name. 

This  Letter,  notwithstanding  the  poor  Butler's  Manner  of 
writing  it,  gave  us  such  an  Idea  of  our  good  old  Friend,  that 
upon  the  reading  of  it  there  was  not  a  dry  Eye  in  the  Club. 
Sir  Andrew  opening  the  Book,  found  it  to  be  a  Collection  of 
Acts  of  Parliament.  There  was  in  particular  the  Act  of  Uni- 
formity, writh  some  Passages  in  it  marked  by  Sir  Roger's  own 
Hand.  Sir  Andrew  found  that  they  related  to  two  or  three 
Points,  which  he  had  disputed  with  Sir  Roger  the  last  time  he 
appeared  at  the  Club.  Sir  Andrezv,  who  would  have  been  merry 
at  such  an  Incident  on  another  Occasion,  at  the  sight  of  the  old 
Man's  Hand-writing  burst  into  Tears,  and  put  the  Book  into  his 
Pocket.  Captain  Sentry  informs  me,  that  the  Knight  has  left 
Rings  and  Mourning  for  every  one  in  the  Club. 

Complete.     From  the  Spectator. 


no 


JEAN   LOUIS   RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ 

(1807-1873) 

|he  idea  which  gives  Agassiz  his  distinct  individuality  as  a 
thinker  belongs  to  the  highest  poetry  of  science.  He  sug- 
gests it  in  his  essays  on  Classification  by  expressing  his 
belief  in  the  existence  in  every  animal  «of  an  immaterial  principle 
similar  to  that  which  by  its  excellence  and  superior  endowments 
places  man  so  much  above  animals. »  (<  The  principle  exists  unques- 
tionably, w  he  adds,  (<  and  whether  it  be  called  soul,  reason,  or  instinct, 
it  presents  in  the  whole  range  of  organized  beings  a  series  of  phe- 
nomena closely  linked  together  and  upon  it  are  based  not  only  the 
higher  manifestations  of  the  mind,  but  the  permanence  of  the  specific 
differences  which  characterize  every  organism. * 

This  is  the  logical  antithesis  of  the  Darwinian  hypothesis  against 
which  Agassiz  was  one  of  the  few  great  scientists  of  Darwin  s  gener- 
ation whose  protest  was  unqualified.  He  made  no  concessions  to  it, 
declaring  it  inconceivable  that  any  force  of  mere  physical  heredity 
supposable  as  innate  in  matter  could  transmit  the  life  and  the  traits 
of  one  individual  of  a  species  to  another. 

He  was  the  son  of  a  Swiss  clergyman,  and  was  born  May  28th, 
1807,  in  his  father's  parish  of  Motier.  Educated  at  Lausanne,  Zurich, 
Heidelberg,  and  Munich,  he  took  his  degree  in  medicine  only  to 
abandon  that  profession  for  the  scientific  research  to  which  he  de- 
voted his  life.  His  greatest  work  was  as  a  specialist  in  the  study  of 
ichthyology,  and  some  of  his  most  far-reaching  generalizations  on  the 
governing  laws  of  life  in  all  its  forms  are  directly  suggested  by  his 
study  of  turtles.  After  such  researches  had  made  him  one  of  the 
most  famous  men  of  Europe,  he  came  to  the  United  States  in  1846 
to  deliver  a  series  of  lectures  at  the  Lowell  Institute.  He  held  pro- 
fessorships at  Harvard  and  in  Charlestown.  The  museum  of  natural 
history  at  Cambridge  is  a  monument  of  his  American  work.  His 
<(  Contributions  to  the  Natural  History  of  the  United  States w  are 
among  the  most  interesting  of  his  numerous  publications,  and  the 
essays  on  Classification  which  they  embody  show  a  faculty  of  clear 
statement  and  succinct  generalization,  suggesting  the  best  work  of 
Aristotle.  He  died  December  14th,  1873.  One  of  his  sayings  should 
be  forever  memorable  in  America  and  in  the  world.  Tempted  with 
lucrative  employment  which  would  have  called  him  away  from  his 
scientific  work,  he  answered:  <(  I  have  no  time  to  make  money.8 


JEAN  LOUIS  RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ. 

After  a  Design  from  an  Approved  Photograph,   Wilson  &*  Co. 


JEAN   LOUIS   RODOLPHE   AGASSIZ  in 


RELATIONS   BETWEEN   ANIMALS  AND    PLANTS   AND   THE 

SURROUNDING  WORLD 

Every  animal  and  plant  stands  in  certain  definite  relations  to 
the  surrounding  world,  some,  however,  like  the  domestic 
animals  and  cultivated  plants,  being-  capable  of  adapting 
themselves  to  various  conditions  more  readily  than  others;  but 
even  this  pliability  is  a  characteristic  feature.  These  relations 
are  highly  important  in  a  systematic  point  of  view,  and  deserve 
the  most  careful  attention,  on  the  part  of  naturalists.  Yet,  the 
direction  zoological  studies  have  taken  since  comparative  anatomy 
and  embryology  began  to  absorb  almost  entirely  the  attention  of 
naturalists,  has  been  very  unfavorable  to  the  investigation  of  the 
habits  of  animals,  in  which  their  relations  to  one  another  and  to 
the  conditions  under  which  they  live  are  more  especially  ex- 
hibited. We  have  to  go  back  to  the  authors  of  the  preceding 
century  for  the  most  interesting  accounts  of  the  habits  of  ani- 
mals, as  among  modern  writers  there  are  few  who  have  devoted 
their  chief  attention  to  this  subject.  So  little,  indeed,  is  its  im- 
portance now  appreciated,  that  the  students  of  this  branch  of 
natural  history  are  hardly  acknowledged  as  peers  by  their  fellow 
investigators,  the  anatomists  and  physiologists,  or  the  systematic 
zoologists.  And  yet,  without  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  habits 
of  animals,  it  will  never  be  possible  to  ascertain  with  any  degree 
of  precision  the  true  limits  of  all  those  species  which  descriptive 
zoologists  have  of  late  admitted  with  so  much  confidence  in  their 
works.  And  after  all,  what  does  it  matter  to  science  that  thou- 
sands of  species  more  or  less  should  be  described  and  entered 
in  our  systems,  if  we  know  nothing  about  them  ?  A  very  com- 
mon defect  of  the  works  relating  to  the  habits  of  animals  has  no 
doubt  contributed  to  detract  from  their  value  and  to  turn  the 
attention  in  other  directions:  their  purely  anecdotic  character,  or 
the  circumstance  that  they  are  too  frequently  made  the  occasion 
for  narrating  personal  adventures.  Nevertheless,  the  importance 
of  this  kind  of  investigation  can  hardly  be  overrated;  and  it 
would  be  highly  desirable  that  naturalists  should  turn  again  their 
attention  that  way,  now  that  comparative  anatomy  and  physi- 
ology, as  well  as  embryology,  may  suggest  so  many  new  topics 
of  inquiry,  and  the  progress  of  physical  geography  has  laid  such 
a  broad  foundation  for  researches   of   this   kind.     Then    we   may 


112  JEAN   LOUIS   RODOLPHE   AGASSIZ 

learn  with  more  precision  how  far  the  species  described  from 
isolated  specimens  are  founded  in  nature,  or  how  far  they  may 
be  only  a  particular  stage  of  growth  of  other  species;  then  we 
shall  know,  what  is  yet  too  little  noticed,  how  extensive  the 
range  of  variations  is  among  animals,  observed  in  their  wild 
state,  or  rather  how  much  individuality  there  is  in  each  and  all 
living  beings.  So  marked,  indeed,  is  this  individuality  in  many 
families,  —  and  that  of  Turtles  affords  a  striking  example  of  this 
kind, —  that  correct  descriptions  of  species  can  hardly  be  drawn 
from  isolated  specimens,  as  is  constantly  attempted  to  be  done. 
I  have  seen  hundreds  of  specimens  of  some  of  our  Chelonians, 
among  which  there  were  not  two  identical.  And  truly,  the 
limits  of  this  variability  constitute  one  of  the  most  important 
characters  of  many  species;  and  without  precise  information  upon 
this  point  for  every  genus,  it  will  never  be  possible  to  have  a 
solid  basis  for  the  distinction  of  species.  Some  of  the  most  per- 
plexing questions  in  zoology  and  paleontology  might  long  ago 
have  been  settled,  had  we  had  more  precise  information  upon 
this  point,  and  were  it  better  known  how  unequal  in  this  respect 
different  groups  of  the  animal  kingdom  are,  when  compared  with 
one  another.  While  the  individuals  of  some  species  seem  all  dif- 
ferent, and  might  be  described  as  different  species,  if  seen  iso- 
lated or  obtained  from  different  regions,  those  of  other  species 
appear  all  as  cast  in  one  and  the  same  mold.  It  must  be, 
therefore,  at  once  obvious,  how  different  the  results  of  the  com- 
parison of  one  fauna  with  another  may  be,  if  the  species  of  one 
have  been  studied  accurately  for  a  long  period  by  resident  natu- 
ralists, and  the  other  is  known  only  from  specimens  collected  by 
chance  travelers;  or,  if  the  fossil  representatives  of  one  period 
are  compared  with  living  animals,  without  both  faunas  having 
first  been  revised  according  to  the  same  standard. 

Section  XVI  of  essays  on  ((  Classification, »  complete. 


RELATIONS   OF    INDIVIDUALS   TO   ONE   ANOTHER 

The  relations  in  which  individuals  of  the   same   species  of  ani- 
mals stand  to  one  another  are  not  less  determined  and  fixed 
than   the  relations  of   species  to  the   surrounding   elements, 
which   we   have    thus   far    considered.     The   relations   which    indi- 
vidual animals  bear  to  one  another  are  of  such  a  character,  that 


JEAN   LOUIS   RODOLPHE   AGASSIZ  113 

they  ought  long  ago  to  have  been  considered  as  proof  sufficient 
that  no  organized  being  could  ever  have  been  called  into  exist- 
ence by  another  agency  than  the  direct  intervention  of  a  reflect- 
ive mind.  It  is  in  a  measure  conceivable  that  physical  agents 
might  produce  something  like  the  body  of  the  lowest  kinds  of 
animals  or  plants,  and  that  under  identical  circumstances  the 
same  thing  may  have  been  produced  again  and  again,  by  the 
repetition  of  the  same  process;  but  that  upon  closer  analysis  of 
the  possibilities  of  the  case,  it  should  not  have  at  once  appeared 
how  incongruous  the  further  supposition  is,  that  such  agencies 
could  delegate  the  power  of  reproducing  what  they  had  just 
called  into  existence,  to  those  very  beings,  with  such  limitations 
that  they  could  never  reproduce  anything  but  themselves,  I  am 
at  a  loss  to  understand.  It  will  no  more  do  to  suppose  that 
from  simpler  structures  such  a  process  may  end  in  the  produc- 
tion of  the  most  perfect,  as  every  step  implies  an  addition  of 
possibilities  not  even  included  in  the  original  case.  Such  a  dele- 
gation of  power  can  only  be  an  act  of  intelligence;  while  be- 
tween the  production  of  an  indefinite  number  of  organized  beings, 
as  the  result  of  a  physical  law,  and  the  reproduction  of  these 
same  organized  beings  by  themselves,  there  is  no  necessary  con- 
nection. The  successive  generations  of  any  animal  or  plant  can- 
not stand,  as  far  as  their  origin  is  concerned,  in  any  causal 
relation  to  physical  agents,  if  these  agents  have  not  the  power 
of  delegating  their  own  action  to  the  full  extent  to  which  they 
have  already  been  productive  in  the  first  appearance  of  these 
beings;  for  it  is  a  physical  law  that  the  resultant  is  equal  to  the 
forces  applied.  If  any  new  being  has  ever  been  produced  by 
such  agencies,  how  could  the  successive  generations  enter,  at  the 
time  of  their  birth,  into  the  same  relations  to  these  agents,  as 
their  ancestors,  if  these  beings  had  not  in  themselves  the  facalty 
of  sustaining  their  character,  in  spite  of  these  agents  ?  Why, 
again,  should  animrds  and  plants  at  once  begin  to  decompose  un- 
der the  very  influence  of  all  those  agents  which  have  been  sub- 
servient to  the  maintenance  of  their  life,  as  soon  as  life  ceases, 
if  life  is  limited  or  determined  by  them  ? 

There  exist  between  individuals  of  the  same  species  relations 
far  more  complicated  than  those  already  alluded  to,  which  go 
still  further  to  disprove  any  possibility  of  causal  dependence  of 
organized  beings  upon  physical  agents.  The  relations  upon  which 
the  maintenance  of  species  is  based,  throughout  the  animal  king- 
1—8 


114  JEAN   LOUIS   RODOLPHE    AGASSIZ 

dom,  in  the  universal  antagonism  of  sex,  and  the  infinite  divers- 
ity of  these  connections  in  different  types,  have  really  nothing  to 
do  with  external  conditions  of  existence;  they  indicate  only  rela- 
tions of  individuals  to  individuals,  beyond  their  connections  with 
the  material  world  in  which  they  live.  How,  then,  could  these 
relations  be  the  result  of  physical  causes,  when  physical  agents 
are  known  to  have  a  specific  sphere  of  action,  in  no  way  bearing 
upon  this  sphere  of  phenomena  ? 

For  the  most  part,  the  relations  of  individuals  to  individuals 
are  unquestionably  of  an  organic  nature,  and,  as  such,  have  to  be 
viewed  in  the  same  light  as  any  other  structural  feature;  but 
there  is  much,  also,  in  these  connections  that  partakes  of  a  psy- 
chological character,  taking  this  expression  in  the  widest  sense 
of  the  word. 

When  animals  fight  with  one  another,  when  they  associate  for 
a  common  purpose,  when  they  warn  one  another  in  danger,  when 
they  come  to  the  rescue  of  one  another,  when  they  display  pain 
or  joy,  they  manifest  impulses  of  the  same  kind  as  are  consid- 
ered among  the  moral  attributes  of  man.  The  range  of  their 
passions  is  even  as  extensive  as  that  of  the  human  mind,  and  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  perceive  a  difference  of  kind  between  them,  how- 
ever much  they  may  differ  in  degree  and  in  the  manner  in 
which  they  are  expressed.  The  gradations  of  the  moral  facul- 
ties among  the  higher  animals  and  man  are,  moreover,  so  imper- 
ceptible, that  to  deny  to  the  first  a  certain  sense  of  responsibility 
and  consciousness  would  certainly  be  an  exaggeration  of  the  dif- 
ference between  animals  and  man.  There  exists,  besides,  as 
much  individuality,  within  their  respective  capabilities,  among 
animals  as  among  men,  as  every  sportsman,  or  every  keeper  of 
menageries,  or  every  farmer  and  shepherd  can  testify  who  has 
had  a  large  experience  with  wild,  or  tamed,  or  domesticated 
animals. 

This  argues  strongly  in  favor  of  the  existence  in  every  animal 
of  an  immaterial  principle  similar  to  that  which,  by  its  excellence 
and  superior  endowments,  places  man  so  much  above  animals. 
Yet  the  principle  exists  unquestionably,  and  whether  it  be  called 
soul,  reason,  or  instinct,  it  presents  in  the  whole  range  of  organ- 
ized beings  a  series  of  phenomena  closely  linked  together;  and 
upon  it  are  based  not  only  the  higher  manifestations  of  the 
mind,  but  the  very  permanence  of  the  specific  differences  which 
characterize  every  organism.     Most  of  the  arguments  of  philosophy 


JEAN    LOUIS    RODOLPHE   AGASSIZ  115 

in  favor  of  the  immortality  of  man  apply  equally  to  the  perma- 
nency of  this  principle  in  other  living-  beings.  May  I  not  add 
that  a  future  life,  in  which  man  should  be  deprived  of  that  great 
source  of  enjoyment  and  intellectual  and  moral  improvement 
which  result  from  the  contemplation  of  the  harmonies  of  an  or- 
ganic world,  would  involve  a  lamentable  loss,  and  may  we  not 
look  to  a  spiritual  concert  of  the  combined  worlds  and  all  their 
inhabitants  in  presence  of  their  Creator  as  the  highest  conception 

of  Paradise  ? 

Section  XVII  of  essays  on  «  Classification, M  complete. 


MUTUAL   DEPENDENCE   OF   THE   ANIMAL  AND   VEGETABLE 

KINGDOMS 

Though  it  had  long  been  known,  by  the  experiments  of  De 
Saussure,  that  the  breathing  processes  of  animals  and  plants 
are  very  different,  and  that  while  the  former  inhale  atmos- 
pheric air,  and  exhale  carbonic  acid  gas,  the  latter  appropriate 
carbon  and  exhale  oxygen,  it  was  not  until  Dumas  and  Bousin- 
gault  called  particularly  the  attention  of  naturalists  to  the  sub- 
ject, that  it  was  fully  understood  how  direct  the  dependence  is  of 
the  animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms  one  upon  the  other,  in  that 
respect,  or  rather  how  the  one  consumes  what  the  other  produces, 
and  vice  versa,  thus  tending  to  keep  the  balance  which  either  of 
them  would  singly  disturb  to  a  certain  degree.  The  common 
agricultural  practice  of  manuring  exhibits  from  another  side  the 
dependence  of  one  kingdom  upon  the  other:  the  undigested  par- 
ticles of  the  food  of  animals  return  to  the  ground,  to  fertilize  it 
for  fresh  production.  Again,  the  whole  animal  kingdom  is  either 
directly  or  indirectly  dependent  upon  the  vegetable  kingdom  for 
its  sustenance,  as  the  herbivorous  animals  afford  the  needful  food 
for  the  carnivorous  tribes.  We  are  too  far  from  the  time  when 
it  could  be  supposed  that  worms  originated  in  the  decay  of  fruits 
and  other  vegetable  substances,  to  need  here  repetition  of  what 
is  known  respecting  the  reproduction  of  these  animals.  Ncr  can 
it  be  necessary  to  show  how  preposterous  the  assumption  would 
be  that  physical  agents  produced  plants  first,  in  order  that  from 
these,  animals  might  spring  forth.  Who  could  have  taught  the 
physical  agents  to  make  the  whole  animal  world  dependent  upon 
the  vegetable  kingdom  ? 


116  JEAN   LOUIS   RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ 

On  the  contrary,  such  general  facts  as  those  above  alluded  to 
show,  more  directly  than  any  amount  of  special  disconnected  facts 
could  do,  the  establishment  of  a  well-regulated  order  of  things, 
considered  in  advance;  for  they  exhibit  well-balanced  conditions 
of  existence,  prepared  long  beforehand,  such  as  only  an  intelli- 
gent being  could  ordain. 

Section   XXIX  of  essays  on  « Classification, »  complete. 


ii7 


AMOS   BRONSON   ALCOTT 

(1799-1888) 

|mos  Bronson  Alcott,  one  of  the  founders  of  the  celebrated 
<( Concord  School  of  Philosophy,0  was  the  son  of  a  Connecti- 
cut farmer  of  limited  means.  He  was  born  in  1799,  and  a 
part  of  his  extensive  though  irregular  educational  training  was  a 
journey  through  Virginia  made  as  a  peddler.  Returning  to  New 
England,  he  taught  school  in  Boston,  and  afterwards  settled  at  Con- 
cord to  engage  in  the  philosophical  studies  which  did  so  much  to 
make  that  village  famous.  In  1842  he  visited  England,  bringing 
back  with  him  on  his  return  Charles  Lane  and  H.  G.  Wright,  with 
whom  he  founded  an  unsuccessful  ideal  community  near  Harvard, 
Massachusetts.  After  its  failure,  he  delivered  lectures  and  held  tt  con- 
versations B  on  a  range  of  subjects  <(  extending  from  divinity  to 
cookery."  Among  his  published  works  are  (< Concord  Days,"  <( Orphic 
Sayings, "  and  (<  Table-Talk. *  The  essays  of  "Concord  Days,"  if 
they  show  sometimes  those  intellectual  peculiarities  he  took  no 
pains  to  conceal,  show  also  that  he  had  thought  as  deeply  on  many 
things  as  the  greatest  thinkers  of  his  day,  and  that  his  thought 
was  often  not  mere  literary  reflection,  but  the  compulsory  con- 
clusions of  his  own  deep  experience.  He  died  in  1888.  One  of 
his  most  attractive  (C  hobbies,"  his  love  of  children  and  his  belief  in 
their  nearness  to  God,  seems  to  be  related  in  equal  measure  to  the 
theories  of  Froebel  and  to  the  Scriptural  suggestion  that  the  mind  of 
childhood  must  be  retained  or  regained  by  all  who  wish  to  take  hold 
on  truth. 


THE   AGE   OF    IRON   AND  BRONZE 

Ours  can  hardly  claim  to  be  the  Golden  Age,  but  of  Bronze 
and  Iron  rather.  If  ideas  are  in  the  ascendant,  still  mind 
is  fettered  by  mechanism.  We  scale  the  heavens  to  grade 
the  spaces.  Messrs.  Capital  &  Co.  transact  our  business  for  us 
the  globe  over.  Was  it  in  the  Empire  News  that  I  read  the 
company's  advertisement  for  supplying  mankind  with  gas  at  a 
penny  per  diem  annually  ?  And  then,  proceeding  to  say,  (<  that 
considering  the  old-time  monopoly  in  the  heavenly  luminary,  the 


Il8  AMOS  BRONSON  ALCOTT 

corporation  has  constructed  at  fabulous  cost  their  Brazen  Cope  to 
shut  down  upon  the  horizon  at  daybreak  punctually,  and  so 
graduate  to  each  customer's  tube  his  just  allowance,  else  dark- 
ness for  delinquents  the  year  round. w 

Certainly  a  splendid  conception  for  distributing  sunbeams  by 
the  Globe  Corporation,  if  the  solar  partner  consent  to  the  specu- 
lation.    Had  Hesiod  the  enterprise  in  mind  when  he  sung, — 

(<  Seek  virtue  first,  and  after  virtue,  coin  M  ? 

Or  Saint  Paul,  when  writing  concerning  labor  and  capital :  <(  For  I 
would  not,w  he  says,  <(  that  other  men  should  be  eased  and  you 
burdened,  but  by  an  equality  that  now  at  the  time  your  abun- 
dance may  be  a  supply  for  their  want,  that  their  abundance  may 
also  be  a  supply  for  your  want,  that  there  may  be  an  equality, 
as  it  is  written,  He  that  had  gathered  much,  had  nothing  over, 
and  he  that  had  gathered  little,  had  no  lack.  If  any  man  will 
not  work,   neither  shall  he  eat." 

Any  attempt  to  simplify  and  supply  one's  wants  by  abstinence 
and  self-help  is  in  the  most  hopeful  direction,  and  serviceable  to 
the  individual  whether  his  experiment  succeed  or  not,  the  prac- 
tice of  most,  from  the  beginning,  having  been  to  multiply  rather 
than  diminish  one's  natural  wants,  and  thus  to  become  poor  at 
the  cost  of  becoming  rich.  <(  Who  has  the  fewest  wants, M  said 
Socrates,  (<  is  most  like  God. w 

<(Who  wishes,  wants,  and  whoso  wants  is  poor.B 

Our  (<  Fruitlands w  was  an  adventure  undertaken  in  good  faith 
for  planting  a  Family  Order  here  in  New  England,  in  hopes  of 
enjoying  a  pastoral  life  with  a  few  devoted  men  and  women, 
smitten  with  sentiments  of  the  old  heroism  and  love  of  holiness 
and  of  humanity.  But  none  of  us  were  prepared  to  actualize 
practically  the  ideal  life  of  which  we  dreamed.  So  we  fell  apart, 
some  returning  to  the  established  ways,  some  soured  by  the  trial, 
others  postponing  the  fulfillment  of  his  dream  to  a  more  propi- 
tious future. 

I  certainly  esteem  it  an  inestimable  privilege  to  have  been 
bred  to  outdoor  labors,  the  use  of  tools,  and  to  find  myself  the 
owner  of  a  garden,  with  the  advantage  of  laboring  sometimes 
besides  my  faithful  Irishman,  and  comparing  views  of  men  and 
things    with    him.       I    think    myself    the    greater    gainer   of   the 


AMOS  BRONSON  ALCOTT  119 

two  by  this  intercourse.  Unbiased  by  books,  and  looking  at 
things  as  they  stand  related  to  his  senses  and  simple  needs, 
I  learn  naturally  what  otherwise  I  should  not  have  known  so 
well,  if  at  all.  The  sympathy  and  sincerity  are  the  best  part  of 
it.  One  sees  the  more  clearly  his  social  relations  and  duties; 
sees  the  need  of  beneficent  reforms  in  the  economics  of  labor 
and  capital  by  which  the  working  classes  shall  have  their  just 
claims  allowed,  the  products  of  hand  and  brain  to  be  more  equi- 
tably distributed,  a  finer  sympathy  and  wiser  humanity  prevail  in 
the  disposition  of  affairs.  No  true  man  can  be  indifferent  to 
that  great  productive  multitude,  without  whose  industry  capital- 
ists would  have  nothing  in  which  to  invest;  the  callings  and  the 
professions  lack  bread  and  occupation  alike.  Heads  and  hands 
best  co-operate  in  this  interplay  of  services.  Every  gift,  besides 
enriching  its  owner,  should  enrich  the  whole  community;  oppor- 
tunities be  opened  for  the  free  exercise  of  all;  the  golden  rule 
stand  for  something  beside  an  idle  text.  Every  one  is  entitled 
to  a  competence,  provided  he  employ  his  gifts  for  the  common 
good.  It  seems  but  right  that  the  gifted  should  return  to  the 
common  treasury  in  the  ratio  of  their  endowments;  be  taxed  at 
a  higher  rate  than  those  to  whom  like  advantages  have  been  de- 
nied. Indeed,  it  is  questionable  whether  the  man  who  is  poor 
by  no  fault  of  his  should  be  taxed  at  all;  give  him  citizenship 
rather  as  an  inborn  right,  as  a  man,  not  as  a  mere  producer.  Men 
are  loyal  from  other  considerations  than  self-interest.  One  would 
not  check  the  spirit  of  accumulation,  but  the  monopoly  of  the 
gift  for  the  sole  benefit  of  the  oppressor.  A  competence,  includ- 
ing every  comfort,  and  even  harmless  luxuries,  is  what  all  men 
need,  all  desire,  all  might  have,  were  there  a  fair  distribution  of 
the  avails  of  labor,  opportunities  for  labor  of  head  or  hand  for 
all, —  the  right  to  be  educated  and  virtuous  included,  as  the  most 
important.  The  poor  man  cannot  compete,  practically,  success- 
fully, with  the  rich  man,  the  laborer  with  the  capitalist,  the  igno- 
rant with  the  instructed, —  all  are  placed  at  unequal  odds,  the 
victims  of  circumstances  which  they  did  not  create,  and  which 
those  who  do  may  use  to  their  injury  if  they  choose.  The  la- 
borer is  broken  on  the  wheel  his  necessities  compel  him  to  drive, 
feeling  the  while  the  wrong  done  him  by  those  whom  he  has 
enriched  by  his  toil. 

No  tradition  assigns  a  beginning  to   justice,  but  only  to  injus- 
tice.    Before  the   Silver,  the   Brazen,  the  Iron,  comes  the  Golden 


120  AMOS   BRONSON   ALCOTT 

Age,  when  virtue  is  current,  and  man  at  his  highest  value.  It  is 
when  man  is  degraded  that  virtue  and  justice  are  dishonored, 
and  labor  deemed  disreputable. 

Poverty  may  be  the  philosopher's  ornament.  Too  rich  to 
need,  and  too  self-respecting  to  receive  benefits,  save  upon  terms 
which  render  the  receiver  the  nobler  giver,  he  revenges  upon 
fortune  by  possessing  a  kingdom  superior  to  mischance  and  in- 
cumbrance. 

<(  The  gold  alone  but  gold  can  buy, 
Wisdom's  the  sterling  currency. w 

Complete.      From  « Concord  Days.»     Copyright  Roberts  Brothers  1888. 


HAWTHORNE 

Hawthorne  was  of  the  darker  temperament  and  tendencies. 
His  sensitiveness  and  sadness  were  native,  and  he  culti- 
vated them  apparently  alike  by  solitude  and  the  pursuits 
and  studies  in  which  he  indulged,  till  he  became  almost  fated  to 
know  gayer  hours  only  by  stealth.  By  disposition  friendly,  he 
seemed  the  victim  of  his  temperament,  as  if  he  sought  distance, 
if  not  his  pen,  to  put  himself  in  communication,  and  possible 
sympathy  with  others, —  with  his  nearest  friends,  even.  His  re- 
serve and  imprisonment  were  more  distant  and  close,  while  the 
desire  for  conversation  was  livelier  than  any  one  I  have  known. 
There  was  something  of  strangeness  even  in  his  cherished  in- 
timacies, as  if  he  set  himself  afar  from  all  and  from  himself 
with  the  rest;  the  most  diffident  of  men,  as  coy  as  a  maiden,  he 
could,  only  be  won  by  some  cunning  artifice,  —  his  reserve  was  so 
habitual,  his  isolation  so  entire,  the  solitude  so  vast.  How  distant 
people  were  from  him,  the  world  they  lived  in,  how  he  came  to 
know  so  much  about  them,  by  what  stratagem  he  got  into  his 
own  house  or  left  it,  was  a  marvel.  Fancy  fixed,  he  was  not  to 
be  jostled  from  himself  for  a  moment,  his  mood  was  so  per- 
sistent. There  he  was  in  the  twilight,  there  he  stayed.  Was  he 
some  damsel  imprisoned  in  that  manly  form  pleading  always  for 
release,  sighing  for  the  freedom  and  companionships  denied  her  ? 
Or  was  he  some  Assyrian  ill  at  ease  afar  from  the  olives  and  the 
East  ?  Had  he  strayed  over  with  William  the  Conqueror,  and, 
true    to   his    Norman   nature,  was   the    baron   still   in    republican 


AMOS   BRONSON   ALCOTT  121 

America,   secure    in    his    castle,   secure    in    his    tower,   whence  he 

could   defy  all   invasion  of  curious  eyes?      What   neighbor  of  his 

ever   caught  him   on   the   highway,   or   ventured    to   approach  his 
threshold  ? 

(<  His  bolted  Castle  gates,  what  man  should  ope, 
Unless  the  Lord  did  will 
To  prove  his  skill, 
And  tempt  the  fates  hid  in  his  horoscope  ? w 

Yet  if  by  chance  admitted,  welcome  in  a  voice  that  a  woman 
might  own  for  its  hesitancy  and  tenderness;  his  eyes  telling  the 
rest: — 

(<  For  such  the  noble  language  of  his  eye, 
That  when  of  words  his  lips  were  destitute, 
Kind  eyebeams  spake  while  yet  his  tongue  was  mute." 

Your  intrusion  was  worth  the  courage  it  cost;  it  emboldened 
to  future  assaults  to  carry  this  fort  of  bashfulness.  During  all 
the  time  he  lived  near  me,  our  estates  being  separated  only  by  a 
gate  and  shaded  avenue,  I  seldom  caught  sight  of  him;  and  when 
I  did  it  was  but  to  lose  it  the  moment  he  suspected  he  was  visi- 
ble; oftenest  seen  on  his  hilltop  screened  behind  the  shrubbery 
and  disappearing  like  a  hare  into  the  bush  when  surprised.  I 
remember  of  his  being  in  my  house  but  twice,  and  then  he 
was  so  ill  at  ease  that  he  found  excuse  for  leaving  politely 
forthwith,  —  ((the  stove  was  so  hot, w  ((the  clock  ticked  so  loud." 
Yet  he  once  complained  to  me  of  his  wish  to  meet  oftener,  and 
dwelt  on  the  delights  of  fellowship,  regretting  he  had  so  little. 
I  think  he  seldom  dined  from  home;  nor  did  he  often  entertain 
any  one, —  once,  an  Englishman,  when  I  was  also  his  guest;  but 
he  preserved  his  shrinking  taciturnity,  and  left  to  us  the  conver- 
sation. Another  time  I  dined  with  a  Southern  sruest  at  his  table. 
The  conversation  turning  on  the  war  after  dinner,  he  hid  him- 
self in  the  corner,  as  if  a  distant  spectator,  and  fearing  there  was 
danger  even  there.  It  was  due  to  his  guest  to  hear  the  human 
side  of  the  question  of  slavery,  since  she  had  heard  only  the  best 
the  South  had  to  plead  in  its  favor. 

I  never  deemed  Hawthorne  an  advocate  of  Southern  ideas  and 
institutions.  He  professed  democracy,  not  in  the  party  sense,  but 
in  the  large  sense  of  equality.  Perhaps  he  loved  England  too  well 
to  be  quite  just  to  his  native  land, —  was  more  the  Old  English- 
man than  the  New.     He  seemed  to  regret  the  transplanting,  as  if 


122  AMOS  BRONSON  ALCOTT 

reluctant  to  fix  his  roots  in  our  soil.  His  book  on  England,  en- 
titled <(  Our  Old  Home,"  intimates  his  filial  affection  for  that  and 
its  institutions.  If  his  themes  were  American,  his  treatment  of 
them  was  foreign,  rather.  He  stood  apart  as  having  no  stake  in 
home  affairs.  While  calling  himself  a  democrat,  he  sympathized 
apparently  with  the  absolutism  of  the  old  countries.  He  had  not 
full  faith  in  the  people;  perhaps  feared  republicanism  because  it 
had.  Of  our  literary  men,  he  least  sympathized  with  the  North, 
and  was  tremulously  disturbed,  I  remember,  at  the  time  of  the 
New  York  mob.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  ever  attended  a  political 
meeting  or  voted  on  any  occasion  throughout  the  long  struggle 
with  slavery.  He  stood  aloof,  hesitating  to  take  a  responsible  part, 
true  to  his  convictions,  doubtless,  strictly  honest,  if  not  patriotic. 
He  strove  by  disposition  to  be  sunny  and  genial,  traits  not 
native  to  him.  Constitutionally  shy,  recluse,  melancholy,  only  by 
shafts  of  wit  and  flow  of  humor  could  he  deliver  himself.  There 
was  a  soft  sadness  in  his  smile,  a  reserve  in  his  glance,  telling 
how  isolate  he  was.  Was  he  ever  one  of  his  company  while  in 
it  ?  There  was  an  aloofness,  a  besides,  that  refused  to  affiliate 
himself  with  himself,  even.  His  readers  must  feel  this,  while 
unable  to  account  for  it,  perhaps,  or  express  it  adequately.  A 
believer  in  transmitted  traits  needs  but  read  his  pedigree  to  find 
the  genesis  of  what  characterized  him  distinctly,  and  made  him 
and  his  writings  their  inevitable  sequel.  Everywhere  you  will 
find  persons  of  his  type  and  complexion  similar  in  cast  of  char- 
acter and  opinions.  His  associates  mostly  confirm  the  observa- 
tion. 

Complete.     Copyright  Roberts  Brothers  1888. 


SLEEP  AND   DREAMS 

(<  When  sleep  hath  closed  our  eyes  the  mind  sees  well, 
For  Fate  by  daylight  is  invisible. w 

Things  admirable  for  the  admirable  hours.  The  morning  for 
thought,  the  afternoon  for  recreation,  the  evening  for  com- 
pany, the  night  for  rest.  Having  drunk  of  immortality  all 
night,  the  genius  enters  eagerly  upon  the  day's  task,  impatient 
of  any  impertinences  jogging  the  full  glass.  The  best  when  we 
are  at  our  best;  and  who  so  buoyant  as  to  be  always  rider  of 
the  wave?     Sleep,  and  see;  wake,  and  report  the  nocturnal  spec- 


AMOS   BRONSON   ALCOTT  1 23 

tacle.  Sleep,  like  travel,  enriches,  refreshes,  by  varying  the  day's 
perspective,  showing  us  the  night  side  of  the  globe  we  traverse 
day  by  day.  We  make  transits  too  swift  for  our  wakeful  senses 
to  follow;  pass  from  solar  to  lunar  consciousness  in  a  twinkling, 
lapse  from  forehead  and  face  to  occupy  our  lower  parts,  and  re- 
cover, as  far  as  permitted,  the  keys  of  genesis  and  of  the  fore- 
worlds.  "All  truth, }>  says  Porphyry,  <(is  latent;  but  this  the  soul 
sometimes  beholds  when  she  is  a  little  liberated  by  sleep  from 
the  employments  of  the  body.  And  sometimes  she  extends  her 
sight,  but  never  perfectly  reaches  the  objects  of  her  vision. 
Hence,  when  she  beholds,  she  does  not  see  it  with  a  free  and 
direct  light,  but  through  an  intervening  veil,  which  the  folds  of 
darkening  nature  draw  over  her  eye.  This  veil,  when  in  sleep  it 
admits  the  light  to  extend  as  far  as  truth,  is  said  to  be  of  horn, 
whose  nature  is  such,  from  its  tenuity,  that  it  is  pervious  to  the 
light.  But  when  it  dulls  the  sight  and  repels  its  vision  of  truth, 
it  is  said  to  be  of  ivory,  which  is  a  body  so  naturally  dense,  that, 
however  thin  it  may  be  scraped,  it  cannot  be  penetrated  by  the 
visual  rays. w 

Homer  says:  — 

<(Our  dreams  descend  from  Jove,w 

that  is,  from  the  seat  of  intellect,  and  declare  their  import  when 
our  will  sleeps.  Then  are  they  of  weighty  and  reliable  import, 
yet  require  the  like  suppression  of  our  will  to  make  plain  their 
significance.  Only  so  is  the  oracle  made  reliable.  The  good  alone 
dream  divinely.  Our  dreams  are  characteristic  of  our  waking 
thoughts  and  states;  we  are  never  out  of  character;  never  quite 
another,  even  when  fancy  seeks  to*  metamorphose  us  entirely. 
The  Person  is  One  in  all  the  manifold  phases  of  the  Many  through 
which  we  transmigrate,  and  find  ourself  perpetually,  because  we 
cannot  lose  ourself  personally,  in  the  mazes  of  the  many.  'Tis 
the  one  soul  in  manifold  shapes,  ever  the  old  friend  of  the  mir- 
ror in  other  faces,  old  and  new,  yet  one  in  endless  revolution 
and  metamorphosis,  suggesting  a  common  relationship  of  forms 
at  their  base,  with  divergent  types  as  these  range  wider  and 
farther  from  their  central  archetype,  including  all  concrete  forms 
in  nature,  each  returning  into  other,  and  departing  therefrom  in 
endless  revolution. 

<(  I  catch  myself  philosophizing  most  eloquently, w  wrote  Thoreau, 
"when  first  returning  to  consciousness  in   the  night  or  morning. 


124  AMOS  BRONSON  ALCOTT 

I  make  the  truest  observations  and  distinctions  then  when  the 
will  is  yet  wholly  asleep,  and  mind  works  like  a  machine  without 
friction.  I  was  conscious  of  having  in  my  sleep  transcended  the 
limits  of  the  individual,  and  made  observations  and  carried  on 
conversations  which  in  my  waking  hours  I  can  neither  recall  nor 
appreciate.  As  if,  in  sleep,  our  individual  fell  into  the  infinite 
mind,  and  at  the  moment  of  awakening  we  found  ourselves  on 
the  confines  of  the  latter.  On  awakening,  we  resume  our  enter- 
prise, take  up  our  bodies,  and  become  limited  minds  again.  We 
meet  and  converse  with  those  bodies  which  we  have  previously 
animated.  There  is  a  moment  in  the  dawn  when  the  darkness 
of  the  night  is  dissipated,  and  before  the  exhalations  of  the  day 
begin  to  rise,  when  we  see  all  things  more  truly  than  at  any 
other  time.  The  light  is  more  trustworthy,  since  our  senses  are 
pure  and  the  atmosphere  is  less  gross.  By  afternoon,  all  objects 
are  seen  in  mirage.* 

All  men  are  spiritualists  in  finer  or  coarser  manners,  as  tem- 
perament and  teaching  dictate  and  determine, —  the  spiritual  world 
revealing  itself  accordingly.  Speculation  has  in  all  ages  delighted 
itself  in  this  preternatural  realm  from  whence  have  risen  the 
ghosts  of  realities  too  unsubstantial  and  fugitive  for  ordinary 
senses  to  apprehend.  Whatever  the  facts,  they  receive  interpre- 
tation according  to  the  spirit  and  intelligence  of  the  believer. 
The  past  is  full  of  such  prodigies  and  phenomena,  for  whose  so- 
lution all  learning,  sacred  and  profane,  is  revived  in  its  turn.  It 
appears  that  like  opinions  have  their  rounds  to  run,  like  theories 
with  their  disciples,  reappearing  in  all  great  crises  of  thought, 
and  reaching  a  fuller  solution  at  each  succeeding  period.  A 
faith,  were  such  possible,  destitute  of  an  element  of  preternat- 
uralism,  or  of  mysticism,  pure  or  mixed,  could  not  gain  general 
acceptance.  Some  hold  on  the  invisible  connects  the  known  with 
unknown,  yet  leaving  the  cupola  to  be  divined.  We  define  it  on 
our  lips  when  we  pronounce  the  word  Person,  and  so  approach, 
as  near  as  we  may,  to  the  <(  I  Am  w  of  things. 

(<  Unseen  our  spirits  move,  are  svich ; 
So  eager  they  to  clasp,  they  feel,  they  touch ; 
While  yet  our  bodies  linger,  cannot  speed; 
The  distance  that  divides,  confines  their  need." 

Complete.  Copyright  by  Roberts  Brothers  188S.  The  foregoing  essays  of 
Alcott  are  from  «  Concord  Days,»  by  permission  of  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  suc- 
cessors to  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston. 


i25 


WILLIAM   ROUNSEVILLE   ALGER 

(1822-) 

Ihe  Introduction  to  the  <( Poetry  of  the  East,"  published  by  Wil- 
liam Rounseville  Alger  in  1856,  made  it  possible  for  Ameri- 
can readers  to  suspect  in  advance  of  the  general  circulation 
of  Fitzgerald's  translation  of  Omar  Khayyam  something  of  the  ex- 
traordinary quality  of  Persian  poetry.  Fitzgerald's  masterpiece,  first 
published  in  1859,  did  not  achieve  its  greatest  popularity  until  nearly 
twenty  years  later.  As  a  poet,  Fitzgerald  is  much  Alger's  superior, 
but  those  who  think,  as  many  have  done,  that  they  are  more  indebted 
to  the  modern  Caucasian  than  to  the  Persian  spirit  for  the  distinctive 
quality  of  Fitzgerald's  work  will  find  material  in  Alger's  versions  of 
Persian  lyric  poetry  for  correcting  their  opinions.  It  shows  insight 
which  is  rarely  found  in  like  measure  in  classical  poets  later  than 
Homer,  and,  in  spite  of  its  extravagances,  it  is  likely  to  do  much  for 
the  poetry  of  the  twentieth  century,  especially  in  redeeming  it  from 
the  matter-of-fact  quality  of  intellect  incident  to  an  age  of  criticism. 
Alger  was  born  at  Freetown,  Massachusetts,  December  30th,  1822. 
Besides  his  works  on  Oriental  Poetry,  he  published  ((  The  Friendships 
of  Women, w  etc.     He  was  by  profession  a  Unitarian  clergyman. 


THE    LYRIC   POETRY   OF   PERSIA 

As  we  enter  the  realm  of  Persian  lyric  poetry,  we  approach 
the  most  intoxicating-  cordials  and  the  daintiest  viands  any- 
where furnished  at  the  world  banquet  of  literature.  The 
eye  is  inebriate  at  the  sight  of  ruby  vases  rilled  with  honey,  and 
crystal  goblets  brimmed  with  thick-purpled  wine,  and  golden 
baskets  full  of  sliced  pomegranates.  The  flavor  of  nectarines, 
tamarinds,  and  figs  is  on  the  tongue.  If  we  lean  from  the  bal- 
cony for  relief,  a  breeze  comes  wafted  over  acres  of  roses,  and 
the  air  is  full  of  the  odor  of  cloves  and  precious  gums,  sandal- 
wood and  cedar,  frankincense  forests,  and  cinnamon  groves.  A 
Persian  poet  of  rich  genius,  who  wrote  but  little,  being  asked 
why  he  did  not  produce  more,  replied :  <(  I  intended,  as  soon  as  I 
should  reach  the  rose  trees,  to  fill  my  lap  and  bring  presents  for 


126  WILLIAM    ROUNSEVILLE    ALGER 

my  companions;  but  when  I  arrived  there  the  fragrance  of  the 
roses  so  intoxicated  me  that  the  skirt  of  my  robe  slipped  from 
my  hands."  The  true  Persian  poet,  as  Mirza  Schaffy  declares, 
in  his  songs  burns  sun,  moon,  and  stars  as  sacrifice  on  the  altar 
of  beauty.  Every  kiss  the  maidens  plant  on  his  lips  springs  up 
as  a  song  in  his  mouth.  One  describes  a  battlefield  looking  as 
if  the  earth  were  covered  over  with  crimson  tulips.  The  evening 
star  is  a  moth,  and  the  moon  a  lamp.  A  devotee  in  a  dream 
heard  the  cherubs  in  heaven  softly  singing  the  poetry  of  Saadi, 
and  saying,  (<This  couplet  of  Saadi  is  worth  the  hymns  of  angel 
worship  for  a  whole  year."  Upon  awakening  he  went  to  Saadi 
and  found  him  reverently  reciting  the  following  lines:  — 

(<  To  pious  minds  each  verdant  leaf  displays 
A  volume  teeming  with  the  Almighty's  praise. w 

The  Persian  seems  born  with  a  lyre  in  his  hand  and  a  song 
on  his  tongue.  It  is  related  of  the  celebrated  poet,  Abderrhaman, 
son  of  Hissan,  that  when  an  infant,  being  stung  by  a  wasp,  he 
ran  to  his  father,  crying  in  spontaneous  verse:  — 

(<  Father,  I  have  been  stung  by  an  insect  I  know  not ;    but  his  breast 
With  white  and  yellow  spots  is  covered,  like  the  border  of  my  vest." 

The  tones  of  the  Persian  harp  are  extremely  tender  and  pa- 
thetic. They  seem  to  sigh,  Wherever  sad  Memory  walks  in  the 
halls  of  the  past,  her  step  wakes  the  echoes  of  long-lost  joys. 
They  frequently  accord  with   a  strain  like  this :  — 

(<I  saw  some  handfuls  of  the  rose  in  bloom, 
With  bands  of  grass  suspended  from  a  dome. 
I  said,  (  What  means  this  worthless  grass,  that  it 
Should  in  the  rose's  fairy  circle  sit?* 

(<  Then  wept  the  grass,   and  said :  { Be  still  !  and  know 
The  kind  their  old  associates  ne'er  forego. 
Mine  is  no  beauty,  hue,  or  fragrance,  true  ! 
But  in  the  garden  of  my  Lord  I  grew  !  > w 

Among  the  epic  poets  of  Persia,  Firdousi  is  chief;  among  the 
romantic  poets,  Nisami;  among  the  moral-didactic,  Saadi;  among 
the  purely  lyric,  Hafiz;  among  the  religious,  Ferideddin  Attar. 
In  their  respective  provinces  these  indisputably  and  unapproached 
bear  the  palm. 


WILLIAM    ROUNSEVILLE    ALGER  I  27 

There  are  three  objects  as  famous  in  Persian  poetry  as  the 
Holy  Grail  in  the  legends  of  King-  Arthur  and  the  Knights  of 
the  Round  Table.  One  is  Jemschid's  cup.  This  was  a  magic 
goblet  with  seven  circling  lines  dividing  it  into  seven  compart- 
ments, corresponding  to  the  seven  worlds.  Filling  it  with  wine, 
Jemschid  had  only  to  look  in  it  and  behold  all  the  events  of  the 
creation,  past,  present,  and  future :  — 

(<  It  is  that  goblet  round  whose  wondrous  rim 
The  enrapturing  secrets  of  creation  swim.** 

Firdousi  has  described  Jemschid  upon  a  certain  occasion  con- 
sulting this  cup:  — 

((The  vessel  in  his  hand  revolving  shook, 
And  earth's  whole  surface  glimmered  on  his  look: 
Nor  less  the  secrets  of  the  starry  sphere, 
The  what,  and  when,  and  how,  depicted  clear: 
From  orbs  celestial  to  the  blade  of  grass, 
All  nature  floated  in  the  magic  glass. }> 

Another  is  Solomon's  signet  ring.  Such  were  the  incredible 
virtues  of  this  little  talisman,  that  the  touch  of  it  exorcised  all 
evil  spirits,  commanded  the  instant  presence  and  services  of  the 
Genii,  laid  every  secret  bare,  and  gave  its  possessor  almost  un- 
limited powers  of  knowledge,  dominion,  and  performance.  The 
third  is  Iskander's  mirror.  By  looking  on  this  the  future  was 
revealed,  unknown  climes  brought  to  view,  and  whatever  its 
owner  wished  was  made  visible.  By  means  of  this  glass,  Alex- 
ander—  for  the  Oriental  "Iskander"  is  no  other — accomplished 
the  expedition  to  Paradise,  so  celebrated  in  the  mythic  annals  of 
the  East.  There  is  scarcely  an  end  to  the  allusions  and  anec- 
dotes referring  to  these  three  wondrous  objects.     .     .     . 

Furthermore,  there  are  five  standard  allegories  of  hapless  love 
which  the  poets  of  Persia  have  wrought  out  in  innumerable  forms 
of  passionate  imagery  and  beauteous  versification.  The  constant 
Nightingale  loves  the  Rose,  and  when  she  perishes,  his  laments 
pain  the  evening  air  and  fill  grove  and  garden  with  heart- 
breaking melodies:  — 

(<  The  bulbul  wanders  to  and  fro ; 
His  wing  is  weak,  his  note  is  low; 
In  vain  he  wakes  his  song, 
Since  she  he  wooed  so  long 


128  WILLIAM   ROUNSEVILLE   ALGER 

No  more  sheds  perfume  on  the  air  around : 

Her  hundred  leaves  lie  scattered  on  the  ground; 

Or  if  one  solitary  bud  remain, 

The  bloom  is  past,  and  only  left  the  stain. 

Where  once  amidst  the  blossoms  was  his  nest, 

Thorns  raise  their  daggers  at  his  bleeding  breast. B 

The  Lily  loves  the  Sun,  and  opens  the  dazzling  white  of  her 
bosom  to  his  greeting  smile  as  he  rises;  and  when  he  sets, 
covers  her  face  and  droops  her  head,  forlorn,  all  night.  The 
Lotus  loves  the  Moon;  and  soon  as  his  silver  light  gilds  the 
waters  she  lifts  her  snowy  neck  above  the  tide  and  sheds  the  per- 
fume of  her  amorous  breath  over  the  waves,  till  shaming  day 
ends  her  dalliance.  The  Ball  loves  the  Bat,  and  still  solicitingly 
returns,  flying  to  meet  him,  however  oft  and  cruelly  repulsed 
and  spurned.  The  Moth  and  the  Taper  are  two  fond  lovers 
separated  by  the  fierce  flame.  He  draws  her  with  resistless  in- 
vitation: she  flies  with  reckless  resolve;  the  merciless  flame  de- 
vours her,  and  melts  him  away. 

From  this  rapid  glance  at  the  wealth  of  the  Iranian  bards,  let 
us  now  turn,  for  a  moment,  to  the  Sufis.  The  circulating  life- 
sap  of  Sufism  is  piety,  its  efflorescence  is  poetry,  which  it  yields 
in  spontaneous  abundance  of  brilliant  bloom.  The  Sufis  are  a 
sect,  of  comparatively  modern  origin,  which  sprouted  from  the 
trunk  of  Mohammedanism,  where  the  mysticism  of  India  was 
grafted  into  it,  and  was  nourished  in  the  passionate  sluggishness 
of  Eastern  reverie  by  the  soothing  dreams  and  fanatic  fires  of 
that  wondrous  race  and  clime.  They  flourished  chiefly  in  Persia, 
but  rightfully  claimed  as  virtual  members  of  their  sect  the  most 
distinguished  religionists,  philosophers,  and  poets  of  the  whole 
Orient  for  thousands  of  years;  because  all  these  agreed  with 
them  in  the  fundamental  principles  of  their  system  of  thought, 
rules  of  life,  and  aims  of  aspiration.  A  detailed  account  of  the 
Sufis  may  be  found  in  Sir  John  Malcolm's  <(  History  of  Persia, B 
and  a  good  sketch  of  their  dogmas  is  presented  in  Tholuck's 
<(  Sufism B ;  but  the  best  exposition  of  their  experience  and  liter- 
ary expression  is  afforded  by  Tholuck's  (<  Anthology  from  the 
Oriental  Mystics. B  The  Sufis  are  a  sect  of  meditative  devotees, 
whose  absorption  in  spiritual  contemplations  and  hallowed  rap- 
tures is  unparalleled,  whose  piety  penetrates  to  a  depth  where 
the  mind  gropingly  staggers  among  the  bottomless  roots  of  be- 
ing, in   mazes  of    wonder    and   delight,  and   reaches  to   a   height 


WILLIAM    ROUNSEVILLE    ALGER  129 

where    the    soul    loses   itself    among   the    roofless   immensities   of 
glory  in  a  bedazzled  and  boundless  ecstasy.    As  a  specimen,  read 


The  Successful   Search 

(<I  was  ere  a  name  had  been  named  upon  earth, — 
Ere  one  trace  yet  existed  of  aught  that  has  birth, — 
When  the  locks  of  the  Loved  One  streamed  forth  for  a  sign, 
And  being  was  none  save  the  Presence  Divine ! 
Ere  the  veil  of  the  flesh  for  Messiah  was  wrought, 
To  the  Godhead  I  bowed  in  prostration  of  thought! 
I  measured  intently,  I  pondered  with  heed, 
(But  ah,  fruitless  my  labor!)  the  Cross  and  its  Creed. 
To  the  Pagod  I  rushed,  and  the  Magian's  shrine, 
But  my  eye  caught  no  glimpse  of  a  glory  divine! 
The  reins  of  research  to  the  Caaba  I  bent, 
Whither  hopefully  thronging  the  old  and  young  went, 
Candahar  and  Herat  searched  I  wistfully  through, 
Nor  above  nor  beneath  came  the  Loved  One  to  view! 
I  toiled  to  the  summit,  wild,   pathless,  and  lone, 
Of  the  globe-girding  Kaf,  but  the  Phoenix  had  flown. 
The  seventh  earth  I  traversed,  the  seventh  heaven  explored, 
But  in  neither  discerned  I  the  Court  of  the  Lord! 
I  questioned  the  Pen  and  the  Tablet  of  Fate, 
But  they  whispered  not  where  He  pavilions  his  state. 
My  vision  I  strained,  but  my  God-scanning  eye 
No  trace  that  to  Godhead  belongs  could  descry. 
But  when  I  my  glance  turned  within  my  own  breast, 
Lo!  the  vainly  sought  Loved  One,  the  Godhead  confessed! 
In  the  whirl  of  its  transport  my  spirit  was  tossed 
Till  each  atom  of  separate  being  I  lost: 
And  the  bright  sun  of  Tauriz  a  madder  than  me, 
Or  a  wilder,  hath  never  yet  seen,  nor  shall  see." 

Their  aim  is  a  union  with  God  so  intimate  that  it  becomes 
identity,  wherein  thought  is  an  involuntary  intuitive  grasp  and 
fruition  of  universal  truth;  and  wherein  feeling  is  a  dissolving 
and  infinite  delirium  filled  with  the  perfect  calmness  of  unfathom- 
able bliss.  For  the  gradual  training  of  the  soul  unto  the  win- 
ning of  this  incomparable  and  last  attainment,  they  have  devised 
a  system  of  means  whose  simplicity  and  complication,  adapted 
completeness, —  regular  stages  of  initiation  and  gradations  of  ex- 
perience, spiritual  frictions  and  magnetisms,  stimulants  for  some 
1—9 


130  WILLIAM    ROUNSEVILLE   ALGER 

faculties,  soporifics  for  others,  diversified  disciplines  and  educa- 
tions for  all, —  are  astonishingly  fitted  to  lead  the  disciple  regu- 
larly on  to  the  marvelous  result  they  desire.  And  it  could 
scarcely  fail  of  effect,  if  faithfully  tried,  even  in  the  colder  airs 
and  on  the  more  phlegmatic  natures  of  the  West.  How  finely 
drawn  the  subtle  experience  and  beautiful  thought  in  the  follow- 
ing anecdote  of  Rabia,  the  celebrated  Mohammedan  saint!  We 
give  it  as  told  after  Tholuck  by  James  Freeman  Clarke. 

The  Three  Stages  of  Piety 

(<  Rabia,  sick  upon  her  bed, 
By  two  saints  was  visited, 
Holy  Malik,  Hassan  wise, — 
Men  of  mark  in  Moslem  eyes. 
Hassan  says,  ( Whose  prayer  is  pure 
Will  God's  chastisements  endure. } 
Malik  from  a  deeper  sense 
Uttered  his  experience: 
(He  who  loves  his  Master's  choice 
Will  in  chastisement  rejoice. > 
Rabia  saw  some  selfish  will 
In  their  maxims  lingering  still, 
And  replied,  l O  men  of  grace ! 
He  who  sees  his  Master's  face 
Will  not  in  his  prayer  recall 
That  he  is  chastised  at  all.))> 

The  passage  through  the  classified  degrees  of  attainment  in 
the  mystic  life  they  call  (<the  traveling  by  steps  up  to  heaven.1* 

The  Sufi  poets  are  innumerable,  but  their  universally  acknowl- 
edged head  and  master  is  the  celebrated  Mewlana  Dschelaleddin 
Rumi,  the  greatest  mystic  poet  of  the  whole  Orient,  the  oracle 
of  the  devotees,  the  nightingale  of  the  contemplative  life,  the 
lawgiver  in  piety,  the  founder  of  the  principal  order  of  Der- 
vishes, and  author  of  the  ((  Mesnavi. B  The  <(  Mesnavi  *  is  a  vast 
and  famous  double-rhymed  ascetic  poem,  an  inexhaustible  coffer 
of  Sufi  lore  and  gems.  From  the  banks  of  the  Ganges  to  the 
Bosporus  it  is  the  handbook  of  all  Sufis,  the  law  book  and  ritual 
of  all  the  mystics.  From  this  work,  says  Von  Hammer,  this 
volcanic  eruption  of  inspiration  breaks  forth  the  inmost  peculiar- 
ity of  Oriental  mysticism,  a  solitary  self- direction  towards  the 
loftiest  goal  of  perfection  over  the  contemplative  way  of  Divine 


WILLIAM   ROUNSEVILLE  ALGER  131 

Love.  On  the  wings  of  the  highest  religious  inspiration,  which 
rises  far  beyond  all  outer  forms  of  positive  religion,  adoring  the 
Eternal  Essence,  in  its  completest  abstraction  from  everything 
earthly,  as  the  purest  fountain  of  eternal  light,  soars  Dschelaled- 
din,  above  suns  and  moons,  above  time  and  space,  above  creation 
and  fate,  beyond  the  piimeval  decrees  of  destiny,  beyond  the 
sentence  of  the  last  judgment,  forth  into  infinitude,  where  he 
melts  into  unity  with  the  Endless  Being  as  endless  worshiper, 
and  into  the  Boundless  Love  as  boundless  lover,  ever  forgetful 
of  himself,  having  the  Absolute  in  view;  and,  instead  of  closing 
his  poems,  like  other  great  poets,  with  his  own  name,  he  always 
makes  the  name  of  his  mystic  master  the  keystone  to  the  dia- 
mond arch  of  his  fire  ghazels. 

The  Sufi  turns  inward  for  his  aims  and  joys,  with  a  scornful 
superiority  to  all  visible  rituals.  He  says  that  one  hour  of  secret 
meditation  and  silent  love  is  of  more  avail  than  seventy  thou- 
sand years  of  outward  worship.  When,  with  great  toils  and  suf- 
ferings, Rabia  had  effected  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  and  saw  the 
people  praying  around  the  Caaba,  she  beat  her  breast  and  cried 
aloud :  — 

(<  O  heart !   weak  follower  of  the  weak, 

That  thou  shouldst  traverse  land  and  sea, 

In  this  far  place  that  God  to  seek 

Who  long  ago  had  come  to  thee ! B 

When  a  knowledge  of  the  Supreme  has  been  attained,  there 
is  no  need  of  ceremonies;  when  a  soft,  refreshing  breeze  blows 
from  the  south,  there  is  no  need  of  a  fan.  As  an  illustration 
of  this  phase  may  be  perused  the  following  fine  poem  trans- 
lated by  Professor  Falconer.      It  may  be  fitly  entitled:  — 

The   Religion   of  the   Heart 

<(  Beats  there  a  heart  within  that  breast  of  thine  ? 
Then  compass  reverently  its  sacred  shrine: 
For  the  true  spiritual  Caaba  is  the  heart, 
And  no  proud  pile  of  perishable  art. 
When  God  ordained  the  pilgrim  rite,  that  sign 
Was  meant  to  lead  thy  thought  to  things  divine. 
A  thousand  times  he  treads  that  round  in  vain 
Who  e'en  one  human  heart  would  idly  pain. 
Leave  wealth  behind;  bring  God  thy  heart, — best  light 
To  guide  thy  wavering  steps  through  life's  dark  night. 


132  WILLIAM   ROUNSEVILLE   ALGER 

God  spurns  the  riches  of  a  thousand  coffers, 
And  says,  (My  chosen  is  he  his  heart  who  offers. 
Nor  gold  nor  silver  seek  I,  but  above 
All  gifts  the  heart,  and  buy  it  with  my  love ; 
Yea,  one  sad,  contrite  heart,  which  men  despise, 
More  than  my  throne  and  fixed  decree  I  prize.  * 
Then  think  not  lowly  of  thy  heart,  though  lowly, 
For  Holy  is  it,  and  there  dwells  the  Holy. 
God's  presence  chamber  is  the  human  breast; 
Ah,  happy  he  whose  heart  holds  such  a  guest  !w 

Every  consistent  Sufi  is  an  optimist,  one  who  denies  the  real- 
ity of  evil.  In  his  poems  he  mingles  the  fighting  limits  of  light 
and  darkness,  dissolves  the  rocky  boundaries  of  right  and  wrong, 
and  buries  all  clamorous  distinctions  beneath  the  level  sea  of 
pantheistic  unity.  All  drops,  however  driven  forth,  scalded  in 
deserts  or  frozen  on  mountains,  belong  to  the  ocean,  and,  by 
omnipotent  attractions,  will  finally  find  their  way  home,  to  re- 
pose and  flow  with  the  tidal  uniformity  of  the  all-embracing 
deep.  Vice  and  virtue,  purity  and  corruption,  birth  and  decay, 
cruelty  and  tenderness, —  all  antagonistic  elements  and  processes 
are  equally  the  manifestations  and  workings  of  God.  From  him 
all  spirits  proceeded,  and  to  him  they  are  ever  returning;  or  in 
the  temple,  or  on  the  gibbet,  groaning  in  sinks  of  degraded 
sensuality  and  want,  or  exulting  in  palaces  of  refinement  and 
splendor,  they  are  equally  climbing  by  irresistible  affinities  and 
propulsions  towards  their  native  seat  in  Deity. 

<(Yet  spake  yon  purple  mountain, 
Yet  said  yon  ancient  wood, 
That  night  or  day,  that  love  or  crime, 
Leads  all  souls  to  the  good.w 


t>v 


This  optimist  denial  of  the  reality  of  evil  is  frequently  brought 
out  by  the  Sufi,  with  a  sudden  emphasis,  an  unflinching  thorough- 
ness, in  forms  and  guises  of  mystic  reason,  wondrous  beauty, 
and  bewildering  subtlety,  which  must  astound  a  Christian  moralist. 
The  Sufi's  brain  is  a  magazine  of  transcendent  mysteries  and 
prodigious  conceits,  his  faith  an  ocean  of  dusky  bliss,  his  illu- 
minated tenderness  a  beacon  of  the  Infinite  Light. 

An  important  trait  of  the  Sufi  belief  is  contained  in  the  idea, 
zealously  held  by  them  all,  and  suffusing  most  of  their  poetry, 
that  death  is  ecstasy. 


WILLIAM   ROUNSEVILLE   ALGER  133 

*  A  lover  on  his  deathbed  lay,  and  o'er  his  face  the  while, 
Though  anguish  racked  his  wasted  frame,  there  swept  a  fitful  smile : 
A  flush  his  sunken  cheek  o'erspread,  and  to  his  faded  eye 
Came  light  that  less  spoke  earthly  bliss   than   heaven-breathed  ec- 
stasy. 
And   one    that    weeping    o'er    him    bent,    and    watched    the    ebbing 

breath, 
Marveled    what    thought    gave    mastery    o'er    that    dread    hour    of 

death. 
(Ah!    when   the    Fair,   adored    through   life,    lifts  up   at   length, '  he 

cried, 
(  The  veil  that  sought  from  mortal  eye  immortal  charms  to  hide, 
'Tis  thus  true  lovers,  fevered  long  with  that  sweet  mystic  fire, 
Exulting  meet  the  Loved  One's  gaze,  and  in  that  glance  expire ! >  }> 

Death  plunges  the  heated,  weary,  thirsting  soul  into  a  flood  of 
delicious  relief  and  repose,  the  unalloyed  and  ceaseless  fruition  of 
a  divine  delight.  The  past  was  one  sweet  ocean  of  Divinity;  the 
future  is  another;  the  present  interposes,  a  blistering  and  dreary 
strand,  between.     To  their  hushed  ear 

*  Some  Seraph  whispers  from  the  verge  of  space : 
(  Make  not  these  hollow  shores  thy  resting  place ; 
Born  to  a  portion  in  thy  Maker's  bliss, 
Why  linger  idly  in  a  waste  like  this?>w 

From  their  heavenly  yearning  breaks  the  exclamation :  <(  Oh,  the 
bliss  of  that  day  when  I  shall  depart  from  this  desolate  mansion, 
and  my  soul  shall  find  rest,  and  I  shall  follow  the  traces  of  my 
Beloved !  *  From  their  exhilarating  anticipation  of  pleasure  and 
glory  yet  untasted  and  unglimpsed  behind  the  veil,  rises  the  re- 
joiceful  cry. — 

<(  Blest  time  that  frees  me  from  the  bonds  of  clay, 
To  track  the  Lost  One  through  his  airy  course: 
Like  motes  exulting  in  their  parent  ray, 
My  kindling  spirit  rushes  to  its  Source!* 

There  are  thoughts  and  sentiments  in  these  poems  which 
ought,  however  suggested,  and  wherever  recognized,  to  smite  us 
with  subduing  wonder,  and  to  fill  us  with  sympathetic  longing; 
which  ought  magnetically  to  strike  with  opening  life  and  desire 
that  side  of  our  souls  which  looks  upon  infinity  and  eternity,  and 
wherethrough,  in  favored  hours,  we  thrill  to  the  visiting  influences 


134  WILLIAM   ROUNSEVILLE   ALGER 

of  boundless  Mystery  and  nameless  Love,  with  a  rapture  of  calm- 
ness, a  vision  of  heaven,  a  perfect  communion  of  the  Father  con- 
fessing with  electric  shudders  of  awe  and  joy  the  motions  of  the 
Spirit,  as  God's  hand  wanders  solemnly  among  the  chords  of  the 
heart. 

In  conclusion,  I  will  specify  the  principal  traits  which  belong 
in  a  distinctive  degree  to  Oriental  poetry.  The  first  one  that  at- 
tracts notice  is  an  airy,  winged,  exultant  liberty  of  spirit,  an  un- 
impeded largeness  and  ease  of  movement,  and  intense  enthusiasm. 
This  gives  birth  to  extravagance.  Compare  in  this  respect  the 
(< Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments  *  with  the  (<  Waverley  Novels. w  Its 
lower  form  is  a  revelling  or  deliberate  fancy,  abounding  in  law- 
less conceits,  sometimes  puerile,  sometimes  amazing.  <(  The  bird 
of  understanding  hath  fled  from  the  nest  of  my  brain. B  (<The 
sun  in  the  zenith  is  a  golden  falcon  hovering  over  his  azure 
nest."  The  higher  form  of  this  trait  is  the  spontaneous  trans- 
port of  an  inspired  and  free  imagination,  producing  the  most 
stupendous  conceptions,  infusing  a  divine  soul  through  all  dead 
substance,  melting  everything  into  its  own  molds,  filling  a  new 
universe  with  new  marvels  of  beauty  and  delight. 

From  the  «  Poetry  of  the  East.» 


»35 


SIR   ARCHIBALD   ALISON 

(1792-1867) 

|t  is  said  by  one  of  the  biographers  of  Sir  Archibald  Alison 
that  between  1842,  when  his  "History  of  Europe M  was  com- 
pleted, and  1867,  five  hundred  and  forty-seven  thousand  vol- 
umes of  the  work  had  been  sold  in  versions  representing  the  principal 
languages  of  Europe  as  well  as  Arabic  and  Hindustani.  If  his  essays, 
of  which  three  volumes  were  collected  in  1859,  do  not  fully  explain 
this  popularity  of  his  history,  they  show  that  with  his  strong  con- 
servative prejudices  he  had  an  intellect  which  no  prejudice  could 
confine.  Though  himself  an  opponent  of  Democracy  for  England,  his 
prophecy  of  its  results  in  America,  published  in  1835  as  a  review  of 
De  Tocqueville,  can  be  read  in  the  last  year  of  the  nineteenth  century 
with  admiration  for  the  clearness  of  its  foresight.  Alison  was  willing 
to  concede  limitless  possibilities  to  (<  democratic  vigor  duly  coerced 
by  patrician  power, B  and  in  his  own  edition  of  the  essay  he  italicized 
the  qualifying  clause. 

He  was  born  December  29th,  1792,  from  a  distinguished  Scottish 
family,  his  father,  Rev.  Archibald  Alison,  author  of  "  The  Nature 
and  Principles  of  Taste, w  being  an  author  of  wide  reputation  in  his 
own  generation.  Educated  at  Edinburgh  University,  the  younger 
Alison  showed  there  the  taste  for  the  great  Greek  poets  which  ap- 
pears in  his  essay  on  (<  Homer,  Dante,  and  Michael  Angelo.w  He  was 
admitted  to  the  bar,  and  in  1822  became  one  of  the  four  "advocates 
depute }>  for  Scotland.  His  essays  on  the  <(  Criminal  Law  of  Scotland B 
won  him  the  admiration  and  patronage  of  Sir  Robert  Peel.  After 
the  appearance  of  his  history  Lord  Derby  made  him  a  baronet.  He 
died  May  23d,  1867.  Besides  his  essays  and  his  "History  of  Europe, B 
he  published  "The  Principles  of  Population, B  in  opposition  to  Malthus, 
and  other  works  on  historical  and  political  subjects. 


THE   FUTURE   OF  AMERICA 

If  we  examine  the  history  of  the  world  with  attention,  we  shall 
find  that  amidst  great  occasional  variations  produced  by  sec- 
ondary and   inferior   causes,  two   great   powers  have  been   at 
work  from  the  earliest  times;   and,  like  the  antagonist  expansive 


136  SIR   ARCHIBALD   ALISON 

and  compressing  force  in  physical  nature,  have,  by  their  mutual 
and  counteracting  influence,  produced  the  greatest  revolutions  and 
settlements  in  human  affairs.  These  opposing  forces  are  north- 
ern conquest  and  civilized  democracy.  Their  agency  appears 
clear  and  forcible  at  the  present  times,  and  the  spheres  of  their 
action  are  different;  but  mighty  ultimate  results  are  to  attend 
their  irresistible  operation  in  the  theatres  destined  by  nature  for 
their  respective  operation. 

We,  who  have,  for  eighteen  years,  so  invariably  and  resolutely 
opposed  the  advances  of  democracy,  and  that  equally  when  it 
raised  its  voice  aloft  on  the  seat  of  government,  as  when  it 
lurked  under  the  specious  guise  of  free  trade  or  liberality,  will 
not  be  accused  of  being  blinded  in  favor  of  its  effects.  We 
claim,  therefore,  full  credit  for  sincerity,  and  deem  some  weight 
due  to  our  opinion,  when  we  assert  that  it  is  the  great  moving 
power  in  human  affairs,  —  the  source  of  the  greatest  efforts  of 
human  genius, —  and,  when  duly  restrained  from  running  into 
excess,  the  grand  instrument  of  human  advancement.  It  is  not 
from  ignorance  of,  or  insensibility  to,  its  prodigious  effects,  that 
we  have  proved  ourselves  so  resolute  in  resisting  its  undue  ex- 
pansion: it  is,  on  the  contrary,  from  a  full  appreciation  of  them, 
from  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  vast  results,  whether  for  good 
or  evil,  which  it  invariably  produces. 

It  is  the  nature  of  the  democratic  passion  to  produce  an  inex- 
tinguishable degree  of  vigor  and  activity  among  the  middling 
classes  of  society  —  to  develop  an  unknown  energy  among  their 
widespread  ranks  —  to  fill  their  bosoms  with  insatiable  and  often 
visionary  projects  of  advancement  and  amelioration,  and  inspire 
them  with  an  ardent  desire  to  raise  themselves  individually  and 
collectively  in  the  world.  Thence  the  astonishing  results  —  some- 
times for  good,  sometimes  for  evil  —  which  it  produces.  Its  grand 
characteristic  is  energy,  and  energy  not  rousing  the  exertions 
merely  of  a  portion  of  society,  but  awakening  the  dormant 
strength  of  millions;  not  producing  merely  the  chivalrous  valor 
of  the  high-bred  cavalier,  but  drawing  forth  (<  the  might  that 
slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm."  The  greatest  achievements  of 
genius,  the  noblest  efforts  of  heroism,  that  have  illustrated  the 
history  of  the  species,  have  arisen  from  the  efforts  of  this  princi- 
ple. Thence  the  fight  of  Marathon  and  the  glories  of  Salamis — 
the  genius  of  Greece  and  the  conquests  of  Rome  —  the  heroism 
of    Sempach    and    the    devotion    of    Haarlem  —  the    paintings    of 


SIR   ARCHIBALD   ALISON  137 

Raphael  and  the  poetry  of  Tasso  —  the  energy  which  covered 
with  a  velvet  carpet  the  slopes  of  the  Alps,  and  the  industry 
which  bridled  the  stormy  seas  of  the  German  Ocean  —  the  burn- 
ing passions  which  carried  the  French  legions  to  Cadiz  and  the 
Kremlin,  and  the  sustained  fortitude  which  gave  to  Britain  the 
dominion  of  the  waves.  Thence,  too,  in  its  wider  and  unre- 
strained excesses,  the  greatest  crimes  which  have  disfigured  the 
dark  annals  of  human  wickedness  —  the  massacres  of  Athens  and 
the  banishments  of  Florence  —  the  carnage  of  Marius  and  the 
proscriptions  of  the  Triumvirate  —  the  murders  of  Cromwell  and 
the  bloodshed  of  Robespierre. 

As  the  democratic  passion  is  thus  a  principle  of  such  vital 
and  searching  energy,  so  it  is  from  it,  when  acting  under  due 
regulation  and  control,  that  the  greatest  and  most  durable  ad- 
vances in  social  existence  have  sprung.  Why  are  the  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean  the  scene  to  which  the  pilgrim  from  every 
quarter  of  the  globe  journeys  to  visit  at  once  the  cradles  of  civ- 
ilization, the  birthplace  of  arts,  of  arms,  of  philosophy,  of  poetry, 
and  the  scenes  of  their  highest  and  most  glorious  achievements  ? 
Because  freedom  spread  along  its  smiling  shores;  because  the 
ruins  of  Athens  and  Sparta,  of  Rome  and  Carthage,  of  Tyre  and 
Syracuse,  lie  on  its  margin;  because  civilization,  advancing  with 
the  white  sails  which  glittered  on  its  blue  expanse,  pierced,  as  if 
impelled  by  central  heat,  through  the  dark  and  barbarous  regions 
of  the  Celtic  race  who  peopled  its  shores.  What  gave  Rome  the 
empire  of  the  world  and  brought  the  venerable  ensigns  bearing 
the  words,  <(  Senatus  populusque  Romanus*  to  the  wall  of  Anton- 
inus and  the  foot  of  the  Atlas,  the  waters  of  the  Euphrates  and 
the  Atlantic  Ocean?  Democratic  vigor!  Democratic  vigor,  be  it 
observed,  duly  coerced  by  patrician  power;  the  insatiable  ambition 
of  successive  consuls,  guided  by  the  wisdom  of  the  senate;  the 
unconquerable  and  inexhaustible  bands  which,  for  centuries,  issued 
from  the  Roman  Forum.  What  has  spread  the  British  dominions 
over  the  habitable  globe,  and  converted  the  ocean  into  a  peaceful 
lake  for  its  internal  carriage,  and  made  the  winds  the  instruments 
of  its  blessings  to  mankind,  and  spread  its  race  in  vast  and  inex- 
tinguishable multitudes  through  the  new  world  ?  Democratic 
ambition;  democratic  ambition,  restrained  and  regulated  at  home 
by  an  adequate  weight  of  aristocratic  power;  a  government  which, 
guided  by  the  stability  of  the  patrician,  but  invigorated  by  the 
activity    of    the    plebeian    race,    steadily    advanced    in    conquest, 


138  SIR   ARCHIBALD   ALISON 

renown,  and  moral  ascendency,  till  its  fleets  overspread  the  sea, 
and  it  has  become  a  matter  of  certainty,  that  half  the  globe 
must  be  peopled  by  its  descendants. 

The  continued  operation  of  this  undying  vigor  and  energy  is 
still  more  clearly  evinced  in  the  Anglo-American  race,  which 
originally  sprung  from  the  stern  Puritans  of  Charles  the  First's 
age,  which  have  developed  all  the  peculiarities  of  the  democratic 
character  in  unrestrained  profusion  amidst  the  boundless  wastes 
which  lie  open  to  their  enterprise.  M.  Tocqueville  has  described, 
with  equal  justice  and  eloquence,  the  extraordinary  activity  of 
these  principles  in  the  United  States :  — 

(<The  inhabitants  of  the  United  States  are  never  fettered  by  the 
axioms  of  their  profession;  they  escape  from  all  the  prejudices  of 
their  present  station;  they  are  not  more  attached  to  one  line  of  oper- 
ation than  to  another;  they  are  not  more  prone  to  employ  an  old 
method  than  a  new  one ;  they  have  no  rooted  habits,  and  they  easily 
shake  off  the  influence  which  the  habits  of  other  nations  might  exer- 
cise upon  their  minds,  from  a  conviction  that  their  country  is  unlike 
any  other,  and  that  its  situation  is  without  a  precedent  in  the  world. 
America  is  a  land  of  wonders,  in  which  everything  is  in  constant 
motion,  and  every  movement  seems  an  improvement.  The  idea  of 
novelty  is  there  indissolubly  connected  with  the  idea  of  amelioration. 
No  natural  boundary  seems  to  be  set  to  the  efforts  of  man;  and 
what  is  not  yet  done  is  only  what  he  has  not  yet  attempted  to  do.M 

From  a  review  of  De  Tocqueville. 


HOMER,  DANTE,  AND    MICHAEL   ANGELO 

Never  did  artist  work  with  more  persevering  vigor  than  Michael 
Angelo.  He  himself  said  that  he  labored  harder  for  fame 
than  ever  poor  artist  did  for  bread.  Born  of  a  noble  family, 
the  heir  to  considerable  possessions,  he  took  to  the  arts  from  his 
earliest  years  from  enthusiastic  passion  and  conscious  power.  Dur- 
ing a  long  life  of  ninety  years,  he  prosecuted  them  with  the  ardent 
zeal  of  youth.  He  was  consumed  by  the  thirst  for  fame,  the  de- 
sire of  great  achievements,  the  invariable  mark  of  heroic  minds; 
and  which,  as  it  is  altogether  beyond  the  reach  of  the  great  bulk 
of  mankind,  so  is  the  feeling  of  all  others  which  to  them  is  most 
incomprehensible.  Nor  was  that  noble  enthusiasm  without  its 
reward.      It  was   his  extraordinary  good  fortune  to  be  called  to 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  POPE  JULIUS  II    VIEWING 
THE  APOLLO  BEL  VIDE  RE. 

After  the  Painting  by  C.  Becker. 


hie  Apollo  Belvidere  was  dug  up  near  Antium  at  the  close  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  Pope  Julius  II.,  who  had  purchased  it  when  a 
cardinal,  allowed  Michael  Angelo  to  place  it  in  the  Belvidere  of 
the  Vatican,  where  it  stood  until  the  French  removed  it  in  1797.  It  was  re- 
stored in  1815.  The  statue  is  supposed  to  be  a  copy  from  a  Greek  original 
now  lost.  Becker's  painting  shows  the  Pope  and  his  Court  which  included 
Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael  inspecting  the  statue  after  it  had  been  placed 
on  its  pedestal. 


SIR   ARCHIBALD   ALISON  139 

form,  at  the  same  time,  the  <(  Last  Judgment  n  on  the  wall  of  the 
Sistine  Chapel,  the  glorious  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the  group 
of  "Notre  Dame  de  PitieV*  which  now  adorns  the  chapel  of  the 
Crucifix,  under  the  roof  of  that  august  edifice.  The  <(  Holy  Fam- 
ily s  in  the  Palazzo  Pitti  at  Florence,  and  the  <(  Three  Fates  °  in 
the  same  collection,  give  an  idea  of  his  powers  in  oil  painting; 
thus  he  carried  to  the  highest  perfection,  at  the  same  time,  the 
rival  arts  of  architecture,  sculpture,  fresco,  and  oil  painting.  He 
may  truly  be  called  the  founder  of  Italian  painting,  as  Homer 
was  of  the  ancient  epic,  and  Dante  of  the  great  style  in  modern 
poetry.  None  but  a  colossal  mind  could  have  done  such  things. 
Raphael  took  lessons  from  him  in  painting,  and  professed  through 
life  the  most  unbounded  respect  for  his  great  preceptor.  None 
have  attempted  to  approach  him  in  architecture;  the  cupola  of 
St.  Peter's  stands  alone  in  the  world. 

But  notwithstanding  all  this,  Michael  Angelo  had  some  defects. 
He  created  the  great  style  in  painting,  a  style  which  has  made 
modern  Italy  as  immortal  as  the  arms  of  the  legions  did  the  an- 
cient. But  the  very  grandeur  of  his  conceptions,  the  vigor  of  his 
drawing,  his  incomparable  command  of  bone  and  muscle,  his  lofty 
expression  and  impassioned  mind,  made  him  neglect,  and  perhaps 
despise,  the  lesser  details  of  his  art.  Ardent  in  the  pursuit  of 
expression,  he  often  overlooked  execution.  When  he  painted  the 
<(  Last  Judgment  w  or  the  (<  Fall  of  the  Titans  })  in  fresco,  on  the 
ceiling  and  walls  of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  he  was  incomparable ;  but 
that  gigantic  style  was  unsuitable  for  lesser  pictures  or  rooms  of 
ordinary  proportions.  By  the  study  of  his  masterpieces,  subse- 
quent painters  have  often  been  led  astray;  they  have  aimed  at 
force  of  expression  to  the  neglect  of  delicacy  in  execution.  This 
defect  is,  in  an  especial  manner,  conspicuous  in  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds, who  worshiped  Michael  Angelo  with  the  most  devoted 
fervor;  and  through  him  it  has  descended  to  Lawrence,  and  nearly 
the  whole  modern  school  of  England.  When  we  see  Sir  Joshua's 
noble  glass  window  in  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  we  behold  the 
work  of  a  worthy  pupil  of  Michael  Angelo;  we  see  the  great 
style  of  painting  in  its  proper  place,  and  applied  to  its  appropri- 
ate object:  but  when  we  compare  his  portraits,  or  imaginary 
pieces,  in  oil,  with  those  of  Titian,  Velasquez,  or  Vandyke,  the 
inferiority  is  manifest.  It  is  not  in  the  design,  but  the  finishing; 
not  in  the  conception,  but  the  execution.  The  colors  are  fre- 
quently raw  and  harsh;    the  details  or  distant  parts  of  the  piece 


140  SIR   ARCHIBALD   ALISON 

ill-finished  or  neglected.  The  bold  neglect  of  Michael  Angelo  is 
very  apparent.  Raphael,  with  less  original  genius  than  his  im- 
mortal master,  had  more  taste  and  much  greater  delicacy  of  pen- 
cil; his  conceptions,  less  extensive  and  varied,  are  more  perfect; 
his  finishing  is  always  exquisite.  Unity  of  emotion  was  his  great 
object  in  design ;  equal  delicacy  of  finishing  in  execution.  Thence 
he  has  attained  by  universal  consent  the  highest  place  in  painting. 

((  Nothing, })  says  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  (( is  denied  to  well- 
directed  labor;  nothing  is  to  be  attained  without  it.B  (<  Excellence 
in  any  department, w  says  Johnson,  (<  can  now  be  attained  only  by 
the  labor  of  a  lifetime;  it  is  not  to  be  purchased  at  a  lesser 
price. B  These  words  should  ever  be  present  to  the  minds  of  all 
who  aspire  to  rival  the  great  of  former  days;  who  feel  in  their 
bosoms  a  spark  of  the  spirit  which  led  Homer,  Dante,  and  Michael 
Angelo  to  immortality.  In  a  luxurious  age,  comfort  or  station  is 
deemed  the  chief  good  of  life;  in  a  commercial  community, 
money  becomes  the  universal  object  of  ambition.  Thence  our 
acknowledged  deficiency  in  the  fine  arts;  thence  our  growing 
weakness  in  the  higher  branches  of  literature  Talent  looks  for 
its  reward  too  soon.  Genius  seeks  an  immediate  recompense;  long 
protracted  exertions  are  never  attempted;  great  things  are  not 
done   because  great  efforts  are  not  made. 

None  will  work  now  without  the  prospect  of  an  immediate 
return.  Very  possibly  it  is  so;  but  then  let  us  not  hope  or  wish 
for  immortality.  w  Present  time  and  future/*  says  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  (<are  rivals;  he  who  solicits  the  one  must  expect  to  be 
discountenanced  by  the  other. }y  It  is  not  that  we  want  genius; 
what  we  want  is  the  great  and  heroic  spirit  which  will  devote 
itself,  by  strenuous  efforts,  to  great  things,  without  seeking  any 
reward  but  their  accomplishment. 

Nor  let  it  be  said  that  great  subjects  for  the  painter's  pencil, 
the  poet's  muse,  are  not  to  be  found  —  that  they  are  exhausted 
by  former  efforts,  and  nothing  remains  to  us  but  imitation.  Na- 
ture is  inexhaustible;  the  events  of  men  are  unceasing,  their 
variety  is  endless.  Philosophers  were  mourning  the  monotony 
of  time,  historians  were  deploring  the  sameness  of  events,  in 
the  years  preceding  the  French  Revolution  —  on  the  eve  of  the 
Reign  of  Terror,  the  flames  of  Moscow,  the  retreat  from  Rus- 
sia. What  was  the  strife  around  Troy  to  the  battle  of  Leipsic  ? 
The  contests  of  Florence  and  Pisa  to  the  Revolutionary  War  ? 
What  ancient  naval  victory  to  that  of  Trafalgar  ?     Rely  upon  it, 


SIR  ARCHIBALD   ALISON  141 

subjects  for  genius  are  not  wanting;  genius  itself,  steadily  and  per- 
severingly  directed,  is  the  thing  required.  But  genius  and  energy 
alone  are  not  sufficient;  courage  and  disinterestedness  are  needed 
more  than  all.  Courage  to  withstand  the  assaults  of  envy,  to  de- 
spise the  ridicule  of  mediocrity  —  disinterestedness  to  trample  un- 
der foot  the  seductions  of  ease,  and  disregard  the  attractions  of 
opulence.  A  heroic  mind  is  more  wanted  in  the  library  or  the 
studio  than  in  the  field.  It  is  wealth  and  cowardice  that  ex- 
tinguish the  light  of  genius,  and  dig  the  grave  of  literature  as  of 
nations. 

From  an  essay  in  Blackwood's  for  January,  1845. 


142 


GRANT  ALLEN 

(1 848-1 899) 

[rant  Allen,  one  of  the  most  popular  scientific  essayists  of 
his  day,  was  born  at  Kingston,  Canada,  February  24th,  1848. 
His  sponsors  christened  him  (<  Charles  Grant  Blairfindie M 
Allen,  but,  as  a  result  of  his  well-deserved  international  celebrity,  this 
has  been  shortened  to  <(  Grant. w  As  "Cecil  Powers  w  and  <(J.  Arbuth- 
not  Wilson w  he  has  done  no  inconsiderable  work  as  a  novelist  and 
miscellaneous  writer,  but  it  is  on  his  scientific  essays,  published  in 
English  periodicals,  that  his  enduring  reputation  will  rest.  Except 
in  the  late  Prof.  R.  A.  Proctor,  he  has  had  no  rival  in  popularizing 
science,  and  in  the  lightness  of  his  touch  he  surpasses  Proctor.  His 
sense  of  humor  is  delicate,  and,  while  it  appears  in  such  works  as  his 
essay  on  the  <(  Scientific  Aspects  of  Falling  in  Love,*  he  does  not  al- 
low it  to  discredit  him  or  to  lower  him  in  the  eyes  of  the  reader  from 
the  plane  of  the  scientist  to  that  of  the  humorist.  His  uncollected 
essays  published  during  the  last  twenty  years  are  numbered  by  the 
score.  The  article  on  (<  Apparitions w  in  the  current  edition  of  the 
British  Encyclopaedia  is  from  his  pen.  He  died  in  London,  October 
25th,  1899. 


SCIENTIFIC   ASPECTS   OF    FALLING   IN    LOVE 

An  ancient  and  famous  human  institution  is  in  pressing  dan- 
ger. Sir  George  Campbell  has  set  his  face  against  the 
time-honored  practice  of  Falling  in  Love.  Parents  innu- 
merable, it  is  true,  have  set  their  faces  against  it  already  from 
immemorial  antiquity;  but  then  they  only  attacked  the  particular 
instance,  without  venturing  to  impugn  the  institution  itself  on 
general  principles.  An  old  Indian  administrator,  however,  goes 
to  work  in  all  things  on  a  different  pattern  He  would  always 
like  to  regulate  human  life  generally  as  a  department  of  the 
India  Office;  and  so  Sir  George  Campbell  would  fain  have  hus- 
bands and  wives  selected  for  one  another  (perhaps  on  Doctor  John- 
son's principle,  by  the  Lord  Chancellor)  with  a  view  to  the  future 


GRANT  ALLEN  143 

development  of  the  race,  in  the  process  which  he  not  very  felici- 
tously or  elegantly  describes  as  (<  man-breeding. n  (<  Probably, w  he 
says,  as  reported  in  Nature,  <(  we  have  enough  physiological 
knowledge  to  effect  a  vast  improvement  in  the  pairing  of  indi- 
viduals of  the  same  or  allied  races,  if  we  could  only  apply  that 
knowledge  to  make  fitting  marriages,  instead  of  giving  way  to 
foolish  ideas  about  love  and  the  tastes  of  young  people,  whom 
we  can  hardly  trust  to  choose  their  own  bonnets,  much  less  to 
choose  in  a  graver  matter  in  which  they  are  most  likely  to  be 
influenced  by  frivolous  prejudices. a  He  wants  us,  in  other  words, 
to  discard  the  deep-seated  inner  physiological  promptings  of  in- 
herited instinct,  and  to  substitute  for  them  some  calm  and  dis- 
passionate but  artificial  selection  of  a  fitting  partner  as  the  father 
or  mother  of  future  generations. 

Now  this  is  of  course  a  serious  subject,  and  it  ought  to  be 
treated  seriously  and  reverently.  But,  it  seems  to  me,  Sir  George 
Campbell's  conclusion  is  exactly  the  opposite  one  from  the  con- 
clusion now  being  forced  upon  men  of  science  by  a  study  of  the 
biological  and  psychological  elements  in  this  very  complex  prob- 
lem of  heredity.  So  far  from  considering  love  as  a  <(  foolish 
idea,w  opposed  to  the  best  interests  of  the  race,  I  believe  most 
competent  physiologists  and  psychologists,  especially  those  of  the 
modern  evolutionary  school,  would  regard  it  rather  as  an  essen- 
tially beneficent  and  conservative  instinct,  developed  and  main- 
tained in  us  by  natural  causes,  for  the  very  purpose  of  insuring 
just  those  precise  advantages  and  improvements  which  Sir  George 
Campbell  thinks  he  could  himself  effect  by  a  conscious  and  de- 
liberate process  of  selection.  More  than  that,  I  believe,  for  my 
own  part  (and  I  feel  sure  most  evolutionists  would  cordially 
agree  with  me),  that  this  beneficent  inherited  instinct  of  Falling 
in  Love  effects  the  object  it  has  in  view  far  more  admirably, 
subtly,  and  satisfactorily,  on  the  average  of  instances,  than  any 
clumsy  human  selective  substitute  could  possibly  effect  it. 

In  short,  my  doctrine  is  simply  the  old-fashioned  and  confiding 
belief  that  marriages  are  made  in  heaven,  with  the  further  cor- 
ollary that  heaven  manages  them,  one  time  with  another,  a 
great  deal  better  than  Sir  George  Campbell. 

Let  us  first  look  how  Falling  in  Love  affects  the  standard  of 
human  efficiency  and  then  let  us  consider  what  would  be  the 
probable  result  of  any  definite  conscious  attempt  to  substitute  for 
it  some  more  deliberate  external  agency. 


144  GRANT   ALLEN 

Falling  in  Love,  as  modern  biology  teaches  us  to  believe,  is 
nothing  more  than  the  latest,  highest,  and  most  involved  exem- 
plification, in  the  human  race,  of  that  almost  universal  selective 
process  which  Mr.  Darwin  has  enabled  us  to  recognize  through- 
out the  whole  long  series  of  the  animal  kingdom.  The  butterfly 
that  circles  and  eddies  in  his  aerial  dance  around  his  observant 
mate  is  endeavoring  to  charm  her  by  the  delicacy  of  his  coloring, 
and  to  overcome  her  coyness  by  the  display  of  his  skill.  The 
peacock  that  struts  about  in  imperial  pride  under  the  eyes  of  his 
attentive  hens  is  really  contributing  to  the  future  beauty  and 
strength  of  his  race  by  collecting  to  himself  a  harem  through 
which  he  hands  down  to  posterity  the  valuable  qualities  which 
have  gained  the  admiration  of  his  mates  in  his  own  person.  Mr. 
Wallace  has  shown  that  to  be  beautiful  is  to  be  efficient;  and 
sexual  selection  is  thus,  as  it  were,  a  mere  lateral  form  of  natural 
selection, — a  survival  of  the  fittest  in  the  guise  of  mutual  attract- 
iveness and  mutual  adaptability,  producing  on  the  average  a 
maximum  of  the  best  properties  of  the  race  in  the  resulting  off- 
spring. I  need  not  dwell  here  Upon  this  aspect  of  the  case,  be- 
cause it  is  one  with  which,  since  the  publication  of  the  ((  Descent 
of  Man,"  all  the  world  has  been  sufficiently  familiar. 

In  our  own  species,  the  selective  process  is  marked  by  all  the 
features  common  to  selection  throughout  the  whole  animal  king- 
dom; but  it  is  also,  as  might  be  expected,  far  more  specialized, 
far  more  individualized,  far  more  cognizant  of  personal  traits  and 
minor  peculiarities.  It  is  furthermore  exerted  to  a  far  greater 
extent  upon  mental  and  moral  as  well  as  physical  peculiarities  in 
the  individual. 

We  cannot  fall  in  love  with  everybody  alike.  Some  of  us  fall 
in  love  with  one  person,  some  with  another.  This  instinctive 
and  deep-seated  differential  feeling  we  may  regard  as  the  out- 
come of  complementary  features,  mental,  moral,  or  physical,  in 
the  two  persons  concerned;  and  experience  shows  us  that,  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten,  it  is  a  reciprocal  affection,  that  is  to  say,  in 
other  words,  an  affection  roused  in  unison  by  varying  qualities  in 
the  respective  individuals. 

Of  its  eminently  conservative  and  even  upward  tendency,  very 
little  doubt  can  be  reasonably  entertained.  We  do  fall  in  love, 
taking  us  in  the  lump,  with  the  young,  the  beautiful,  the  strong, 
and  the  healthy;  we  do  ?iot  fall  in  love,  taking  us  in  the  lump, 
with  the  aged,  the  ugly,  the  feeble,  and  the  sickly.     The  prohibi- 


GRANT  ALLEN  145 

tion  of  the  Church  is  scarcely  needed  to  prevent  a  man  from 
marrying  his  grandmother.  Moralists  have  always  borne  a  special 
grudge  to  pretty  faces;  but  as  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  admirably 
put  it  (long  before  the  appearance  of  Darwin's  selective  theory), 
tt  the  saying  that  beauty  is  but  skin-deep  is  itself  but  a  skin-deep 
saying. }>  In  reality,  beauty  is  one  of  the  very  best  guides  we 
can  possibly  have  to  the  desirability,  so  far  as  race  preservation 
is  concerned,  of  any  man  or  any  woman  as  a  partner  in  mar- 
riage. 

What  we  all  fall  in  love  with,  then,  as  a  race,  is  in  most  cases 
efficiency  and  ability.  What  we  each  fall  in  love  with  individu- 
ally is,  I  believe,  our  moral,  mental,  and  physical  complement. 
Not  our  like,  nor  our  counterpart,  quite  the  contrary;  within 
healthy  limits,  our  unlike  and  our  opposite.  That  this  is  so  has 
long  been  more  or  less  a  commonplace  of  ordinary  conversation; 
that  it  is  scientifically  true,  one  time  with  another,  when  we  take 
an  extended  range  of  cases,  may,  I  think,  be  almost  demonstrated 
by  sure  and  certain  warranty  of  human  nature. 

In  minor  matters,  it  is  of  course  universally  admitted  that 
short  men,  as  a  rule,  prefer  tall  women,  while  tall  men  admire 
little  women.  Dark  pairs  by  preference  with  fair;  the  common- 
place often  runs  after  the  original.  People  have  long  noticed 
that  this  attraction  toward  one's  opposite  tends  to  keep  true  the 
standard  of  the  race;  they  have  not,  perhaps,  so  generally  ob- 
served that  it  also  indicates  roughly  the  existence  in  either 
individual  of  a  desire  for  its  own  natural  complement.  It  is  dif- 
ficult here  to  give  definite  examples,  but  everybody  knows  how, 
in  the  subtle  psychology  of  Falling  in  Love,  there  are  involved 
innumerable  minor  elements,  physical  and  mental,  which  strike 
us  exactly  because  of  their  absolute  adaptation  to  form  with  our- 
selves an  adequate  union.  Of  course  we  do  not  definitely  seek 
out  and  discover  such  qualities,  —  instinct  works  far  more  intuitively 
than  that;  but  we  find  at  last,  by  subsequent  observation,  how 
true  and  how  trustworthy  were  its  immediate  indications.  That 
is  to  say,  those  men  do  so  who  were  wise  enough  or  fortunate 
enough  to  follow  the  earliest  promptings  of  their  own  hearts, 
and  not  to  be  ashamed  of  that  divinest  and  deepest  of  human 
intuitions,  love  at  first  sight. 

How  very  subtle  this  intuition  is,  we  can  only  guess  in  part 
by  the  apparent  capriciousness  and  incomprehensibility  of  its  oc- 
casional action.  We  know  that  some  men  and  women  fall  in 
1— 10 


146  GRANT   ALLEN 

love  easily,  while  others  are  only  moved  to  love  by  some  very 
special  and  singular  combination  of  peculiarities.  We  know  that 
one  man  is  readily  stirred  by  every  pretty  face  he  sees,  while 
another  man  can  only  be  roused  by  intellectual  qualities  or  by 
moral  beauty.  We  know  that  sometimes  we  meet  people  possess- 
ing every  virtue  and  grace  under  heaven,  and  yet  for  some  un- 
known and  incomprehensible  reason  we  could  no  more  fall  in 
love  with  them  than  we  could  fall  in  love  with  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments. I  don't,  of  course,  for  a  moment  accept  the  silly 
romantic  notion  that  men  and  women  fall  in  love  only  once  in 
their  lives,  or  that  each  one  of  us  has  somewhere  on  earth  his  or 
her  exact  Affinity,  whom  we  must  sooner  or  later  meet,  or  else 
die  unsatisfied.  Almost  every  healthy  normal  man  and  woman 
has  probably  fallen  in  love  over  and  over  again  in  the  course  of 
a  lifetime  (except  in  case  of  very  early  marriage),  and  could 
easily  find  dozens  of  persons  with  whom  they  would  be  capable 
of  falling  in  love  again  if  due  occasion  offered.  We  are  not  all 
created  in  pairs,  like  the  Exchequer  tallies,  exactly  intended  to 
fit  into  one  another's  minor  idiosyncrasies.  Men  and  women  as 
a  rule  very  sensibly  fall  in  love  with  one  another  in  the  par- 
ticular places  and  the  particular  societies  they  happen  to  be 
cast  among.  A  man  at  Ashby-de-la-Zouch  does  not  hunt  the 
world  over  to  find  his  pre-established  harmony  at  Paray-le- 
Monial  or  at  Denver,  Colorado.  But  among  the  women  he  act- 
ually meets,  a  vast  number  are  purely  indifferent  to  him:  only 
one  or  two,  here  and  there,  strike  him  in  the  light  of  possible 
wives,  and  only  one  in  the  last  resort  (outside  Salt  Lake  City) 
approves  herself  to  his  inmost  nature  as  the  actual  wife  of  his 
final  selection. 

Now  this  very  indifference  to  the  vast  mass  of  our  fellow- 
countrymen  or  fellow-countrywomen,  this  extreme  pitch  of  selec- 
tive preference  in  the  human  species,  is  just  one  mark  of  our 
extraordinary  specialization,  one  stamp  and  token  of  our  high  su- 
premacy. The  brutes  do  not  so  pick  and  choose.  Though  even 
there,  as  Darwin  has  shown,  selection  plays  a  large  part  (for  the 
very  butterflies  are  coy,  and  must  be  wooed  and  won) ;  it  is  only 
in  the  human  race  itself  that  selection  descends  into  such  minute, 
such  subtle,  such  indefinable  discriminations.  Why  should  a  uni- 
versal and  common  impulse  have  in  our  case  these  special  limits  ? 
Why  should  we  be  by  nature  so  fastidious  and  so  diversely  affected  ? 
Surely  for  some  good  and  sufficient  purpose.     No  deep-seated  want 


GRANT  ALLEN  147 

of  our  complex  life  would  be  so  narrowly  restricted  without  a  law 
and  a  meaning.  Sometimes  we  can  in  part  explain  its  conditions. 
Here,  we  see  that  beauty  plays  a  great  role;  there,  we  recognize 
the  importance  of  strength,  of  manner,  of  grace,  of  moral  quali- 
ties. Vivacity,  as  Mr.  Galton  justly  remarks,  is  one  of  the  most 
powerful  among  human  attractions,  and  often  accounts  for  what 
might  otherwise  seem  unaccountable  preferences.  But  after  all 
is  said  and  done,  there  remains  a  vast  mass  of  instinctive  and 
inexplicable  elements:  a  power  deeper  and  more  marvelous  in 
its  inscrutable  ramifications  than  human  consciousness.  "What 
on  earth,"  we  say,  "could  So-and-so  see  in  So-and-so  to  fall  in 
love  with  ?  •  This  very  inexplicability  I  take  to  be  the  sign  and 
seal  of  a  profound  importance.  An  instinct  so  conditioned,  so 
curious,  so  vague,  so  unfathomable,  as  we  may  guess  by  analogy 
with  all  other  instincts,  must  be  Nature's  guiding  voice  within  us, 
speaking  for  the  good  of  the  human  race  in  all  future  genera- 
tions. 

On  the  other  hand,  let  us  suppose  for  a  moment  (impossible 
supposition ! )  that  mankind  could  conceivably  divest  itself  of 
"these  foolish  ideas  about  love  and  the  tastes  of  young  people," 
and  could  hand  over  the  choice  of  partners  for  life  to  a  commit- 
tee of  anthropologists,  presided  over  by  Sir  George  Campbell. 
Would  the  committee  manage  things,  I  wonder,  very  much  bet- 
ter than  the  Creator  has  managed  them  ?  Where  would  they 
obtain  that  intimate  knowledge  of  individual  structures  and  func- 
tions and  differences  which  would  enable  them  to  join  together 
in  holy  matrimony  fitting  and  complementary  idiosyncrasies  ?  Is 
a  living  man,  with  all  his  organs,  and  powers,  and  faculties,  and 
dispositions,  so  simple  and  easy  a  problem  to  read  that  anybody 
else  can  readily  undertake  to  pick  out  offhand  a  helpmeet  for 
him  ?     I  trow  not !     .     .     . 

I  do  not  doubt  that,  as  the  world  goes  on,  a  deeper  sense  of 
moral  responsibility  in  the  matter  of  marriage  will  grow  up 
among  us.  But  it  will  not  take  the  false  direction  of  ignoring 
these  our  profoundest  and  holiest  instincts.  Marriage  for  money 
may  go;  marriage  for  rank  may  go;  marriage  for  position  may 
go;  but  marriage  for  love,  I  believe  and  trust,  will  last  forever. 
Men  in  the  future  will  probably  feel  that  a  union  with  their 
cousins  or  near  relations  is  positively  wicked;  that  a  union  with 
those  too  like  them  in  person  or  disposition  is  at  least  undesira- 
ble;   that  a  union   based   upon   considerations   of   wealth   or   any 


148  GRANT  ALLEN 

other  consideration  save  considerations  of  immediate  natural  im- 
pulse, is  base  and  disgraceful.  But  to  the  end  of  time  they  will 
continue  to  feel,  in  spite  of  doctrinaires,  that  the  voice  of  nature 
is  better  far  than  the  voice  of  the  Lord  Chancellor  or  the  Royal 
Society;  and  that  the  instinctive  desire  for  a  particular  helpmate 
is  a  surer  guide  for  the  ultimate  happiness,  both  of  the  race  and 
of  the  individual,  than  any  amount  of  deliberate  consultation.  It 
is  not  the  foolish  fancies  of  youth  that  will  have  to  be  got  rid 
of,  but  the  foolish,  wicked,  and  mischievous  interference  of  par- 
ents or  outsiders. 

From  an  essay  in  the  Fortnightly  Review. 


149 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON 

(i  779- 1 843) 

*ne  of  the  first  painters  of  assured  genius  developed  in  the 
United  States,  Washington  Allston  lacks  nothing  except  the 
quantity  of  his  literary  work  to  give  him,  as  an  essayist  on 
art,  the  same  high  rank  he  attained  by  expressing  his  intellect  with 
his  brush.  He  is  governed  by  the  same  reverence  for  nature,  the 
same  belief  in  its  supernatural  origin  and  in  the  possibility  of  learn- 
ing more  from  it  than  can  be  expressed  in  words,  which  governed 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and  Ruskin. 

He  was  born  near  Georgetown,  South  Carolina,  November  5th,  1779. 
After  graduating  at  Harvard,  he  sold  his  estate  in  South  Carolina  and 
went  to  Europe  that  he  might  devote  himself  wholly  to  art.  He 
spent  nearly  eighteen  years  in  London,  Paris,  and  Rome,  and,  on  his 
return  to  America,  took  up  his  residence  in  Massachusetts,  where  he 
painted  many  of  his  best  pictures,  notably  (( The  Angel  Uriel  in  the 
Sun tt  and  the  unfinished  <(  Belshazzar's  Feast. ®  Besides  his  essays 
and  lectures  on  art,  he  published  a  volume  of  poems  which  were  in- 
cluded in  the  collection  edited  after  his  death  by  Richard  H.  Dana, 
Junior.     He  died  July  9th,  1843,  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 


HUMAN   ART   AND    INFINITE   TRUTH 

As  to  what  some  have  called  <(our  creative  powers, w  we  take 
it  for  granted  that  no  correct  thinker  has  ever  applied  such 
expressions  literally.  Strictly  speaking,  we  can  make  noth- 
ing; we  can  only  construct.  But  how  vast  a  theatre  is  here  laid 
open  to  the  constructive  powers  of  the  finite  creature;  where  the 
physical  eye  is  permitted  to  travel  for  millions  and  millions  of 
miles,  while  that  of  the  mind,  swifter  than  light,  may  follow  out 
the  journey,  from  star  to  star,  till  it  falls  back  on  itself  with  the 
humbling  conviction  that  the  measureless  journey  is  then  but 
begun!  It  is  needless  to  dwell  on  the  immeasurable  mass  of 
materials  which  a  world  like  this  may  supply  to  the  Artist. 

The   very  thought   of   its  vastness  darkens   into  wonder.     Yet 
how  much  deeper  the  wonder,  when  the  created  mind  looks  into 


150  WASHINGTON   ALLSTON 

itself,  and  contemplates  the  power  of  impressing  its  thoughts  on 
all  things  visible;  nay,  of  giving  the  likeness  of  life  to  things 
inanimate;  and,  still  more  marvelous,  by  the  mere  combination 
of  words  or  colors,  of  evolving  into  shape  its  own  Idea,  till  some 
unknown  form,  having  no  type  in  the  actual,  is  made  to  seem  to 
us  an  organized  being.  When  such  is  the  result  of  any  unknown 
combination,  then  it  is  that  we  achieve  the  Possible.  And  here 
the  realizing  principle  may  strictly  be  said  to  prove  itself. 

That  such  an  effect  should  follow  a  cause  which  we  know  to 
be  purely  imaginary,  suppose,  as  we  have  said,  something  in 
ourselves  which  holds,  of  necessity,  a  predetermined  relation  to 
every  object  either  outwardly  existing  or  projected  from  the 
mind,  which  we  thus  recognize  as  true.  If  so,  then  the  Possible 
and  the  Ideal  are  convertible  terms,  having  their  existence,  ab 
initio,  in  the  nature  of  the  mind.  The  soundness  of  this  infer- 
ence is  also  supported  negatively,  as  just  observed,  by  the  op- 
posite result,  as  in  the  case  of  those  fantastic  combinations, 
which  we  sometimes  meet  with  both  in  Poetry  and  Painting,  and 
which  we  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  unnatural,  that  is,  false. 

And  here  we  would  not  be  understood  as  implying  the  pre- 
existence  of  all  possible  forms,  as  so  many  patterns,  but  only  of 
that  constructive  Power  which  imparts  its  own  Truth  to  the  un- 
seen real,  and  under  certain  conditions  reflects  the  image  or 
semblance  of  its  truth  on  all  things  imagined,  and  which  must  be 
assumed  in  order  to  account  for  the  phenomena  presented  in  the 
frequent  coincidence  of  effect  between  the  real  and  the  feigned. 
Nor  does  the  absence  of  consciousness  in  particular  individuals, 
as  to  this  Power  in  themselves,  fairly  affect  its  universality,  at 
least  potentially;  since  by  the  same  rule  there  would  be  equal 
ground  for  denying  the  existence  of  any  faculty  of  the  mind 
which  is  of  slow  or  gradual  development.  All  that  we  may  rea- 
sonably infer  in  such  cases  is  that  the  whole  mind  is  not  yet 
revealed  to  itself.  In  some  of  the  greatest  artists  the  inventive 
powers  have  been  of  late  development;  as  in  Claude,  and  the 
sculptor  Falconet.  And  can  any  one  believe  that  while  the 
latter  was  hewing  his  master's  marble,  and  the  former  making 
pastry,  either  of  them  was  conscious  of  the"»sublime  Ideas  which 
afterwards  took  form  for  the  admiration  of  the  world  ?  When 
Raphael,  then  a  youth,  was  selected  to  execute  the  noble  works 
which  now  live  on  the  walls  of  the  Vatican,  <(  he  had  done  little 
or  nothing, w  says  Reynolds,  (<  to  justify  so  high  a  trust. w      Nor 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON  151 

could  he  have  been  certain,  from  what  he  knew  of  himself,  that 
he  was  equal  to  the  task.  He  could  only  hope  to  succeed;  and 
his  hope  was  no  doubt  founded  on  his  experience  of  the  progres- 
sive development  of  his  mind  in  former  efforts,  rationally  con- 
cluding that  the  originally  seeming  blank  from  which  had  arisen 
so  many  admirable  forms  was  still  teeming  with  others  that  only 
wanted  the  occasion,  or  excitement,  to  come  forth  at  his  bidding. 

To  return  to  that  which,  as  the  interpreting  medium  of  his 
thoughts  and  conceptions,  connects  the  artist  with  his  fellowmen, 
we  remark  that  only  on  the  ground  of  some  self-realizing  power, 
like  what  we  have  termed  Poetic  Truth,  could  what  we  call  the 
Ideal  ever  be  intelligible. 

That  some  such  power  is  inherent  and  fundamental  in  our 
nature,  though  differenced  in  individuals  by  more  or  less  activity, 
seems  more  confirmed  in  this  latter  branch  of  the  subject,  where 
the  phenomena  presented  are  exclusively  of  the  Possible.  Indeed, 
we  cannot  conceive  how  without  it  there  could  ever  be  such  a 
thing  as  true  Art;  for  what  might  be  received  as  such  in  one 
age  might  also  be  overruled  in  the  next, —  as  we  know  to  be  the 
case  with  most  things  depending  on  opinion.  But,  happily  for 
Art,  if  once  established  on  this  immutable  base,  there  it  must 
rest, — and  rest  unchanged,  amidst  the  endless  fluctuations  of  man- 
ners, habits,  and  opinions;  for  its  truth  of  a  thousand  years  is  as 
the  truth  of  yesterday.  Hence  the  beings  described  by  Homer, 
Shakespeare,  and  Milton  are  as  true  to  us  now  as  the  recent 
characters  of  Scott.  Nor  is  it  the  least  characteristic  of  this  im- 
portant Truth,  that  the  only  thing  needed  for  its  full  reception  is 
simply  its  presence, —  being  its  own  evidence. 

How  otherwise  could  such  a  being  as  Caliban  ever  be  true  to 
us  ?  We  have  never  seen  his  race ;  nay,  we  knew  not  that  such 
a  creature  could  exist,  until  he  started  upon  us  from  the  mind  of 
Shakespeare.  Yet  who  ever  stopped  to  ask  if  he  were  a  real 
being?  His  existence  to  the  mind  is  instantly  felt;  not  as  a 
matter  of  faith,  but  of  fact,  and  a  fact,  too,  which  the  imagination 
cannot  get  rid  of  if  it  would,  but  which  must  ever  remain  there, 
verifying  itself,  from  the  first  to  the  last  moment  of  conscious- 
ness. From  whatever  point  we  view  this  singular  creature,  his 
reality  is  felt.  His  very  language,  his  habits,  his  feelings,  when- 
ever they  recur  to  us,  are  all  issues  from  a  living  thing,  acting 
upon  us,  nay,  forcing  the  mind,  in  some  instances,  even  to  specu- 
late on  his  nature,  till  it  finds  itself  classing  him  in  the  chain  of 


152  WASHINGTON   ALLSTON 

being  as  the  intermediate  link  between  man  and  the  brute.  And 
this  we  do,  not  by  an  ingenious  effort,  but  almost  by  involuntary 
induction;  for  we  perceive  speech  and  intellect,  and  yet  without 
a  soul.  What  but  an  intellectual  brute  could  have  uttered  the 
imprecations  of  Caliban  ?  They  would  not  be  natural  in  man, 
whether  savage  or  civilized.  Hear  him  in  his  wrath  against 
Prospero  and  Miranda:  — 

(<  A  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brushed 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen, 
Light  on  you  both  ! }> 

The  wild  malignity  of  this  curse,  fierce  as  it  is,  yet  wants  the 
moral  venom,  the  devilish  leaven,  of  a  consenting  spirit;  it  is  all 
but  human. 

In  this  we  may  add  a  similar  example,  from  our  own  art,  in 
the  "Puck,*  or  <c  Robin  Goodf  ellow, *  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 
Who  can  look  at  this  exquisite  little  creature,  seated  on  its  toad- 
stool cushion,  and  not  acknowledge  its  prerogative  of  life, —  that 
mysterious  influence  which  in  spite  of  the  stubborn  understand- 
ing masters  the  mind, —  sending  it  back  to  days  long  past,  when 
care  was  but  a  dream,  and  its  most  serious  business  a  childish 
frolic  ?  But  we  no  longer  think  of  childhood  as  the  past,  still 
less  as  an  abstraction;  we  see  it  embodied  before  us  in  all  its 
mirth  and  fun  and  glee;  and  the  grave  man  becomes  again  a 
child,  to  feel  as  a  child,  and  to  follow  the  little  enchanter  through 
all  his  wiles  and  never-ending  labyrinth  of  pranks.  What  can 
be  real,  if  that  is  not  which  so  takes  us  out  of  our  present  selves, 
that  the  weight  of  years  falls  from  us  as  a  garment, —  that  the 
freshness  of  life  seems  to  begin  anew,  and  the  heart  and  the 
fancy,  resuming  their  first  joyous  consciousness,  to  launch  again 
into  this  moving  world,  as  on  a  sunny  sea  whose  pliant  waves 
yield  to  the  touch,  yet,  sparkling  and  buoyant,  carry  them  on- 
ward in  their  merry  gambols  ?  Where  all  the  purposes  of  reality 
are  answered,  if  there  be  no  philosophy  in  admitting,  we  see  no 
wisdom  in  disputing  it. 

Of  the  immutable  nature  of  this  peculiar  Truth  we  have  a 
like  instance  in  the  "Farnese  Hercules,*  the  work  of  the  Grecian 
sculptor  Glycon, —  we  had  almost  said  his  immortal  offspring. 
Since  the  time  of  its  birth,  cities  and  empires,  even  whole  na- 
tions, have  disappeared,  giving  place  to  others  more  or  less  bar- 
barous   or    civilized;    yet    these    are    as    nothing   to    the    countless 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON  153 

revolutions  which  have  marked  the  interval  in  the  manners, 
habits,  and  opinions  of  men.  Is  it  reasonable,  then,  to  suppose 
that  anything  not  immutable  in  its  nature  could  possibly  have 
withstood  such  continual  fluctuation  ?  But  how  have  all  these 
changes  affected  this  visible  image  of  Truth  ?  In  no  wise ;  not  a 
jot;  and  because  what  is  true  is  independent  of  opinion:  it  is  the 
same  to  us  now  as  it  was  to  the  men  of  the  dust  of  antiquity. 
The  unlearned  spectator  of  the  present  day  may  not,  indeed,  see 
in  it  the  demigod  of  Greece,  but  he  can  never  mistake  it  for  a 
mere  exaggeration  of  the  human  form ;  though  of  mortal  mold, 
he  cannot  doubt  its  possession  of  more  than  mortal  powers;  he 
feels  its  essential  life,  for  he  feels  before  it  as  in  the  stirring 
presence  of  a  superior  being. 

Perhaps  the  attempt  to  give  form  and  substance  to  a  pure 
Idea  was  never  so  perfectly  accomplished  as  in  this  wonderful 
figure.  Who  has  ever  seen  the  ocean  in  repose,  in  its  awful 
sleep,  that  smooths  it  like  glass,  yet  cannot  level  its  unfathomed 
swell  ?  So  seems  to  us  the  repose  of  this  tremendous  personifi- 
cation of  strength-  the  laboring  eye  heaves  on  its  slumbering  sea 
of  muscles,  and  trembles  like  a  skiff  as  it  passes  over  them;  but 
the  silent  intimations  of  the  spirit  beneath  at  length  become 
audible;  the  startled  imagination  hears  it  in  its  rage,  sees  it  in 
motion,  and  sees  its  resistless  might  in  the  passive  wrecks  that 
follow  the  uproar.  And  this  from  a  piece  of  marble,  cold,  im- 
movable, lifeless!  Surely  there  is  that  in  man,  which  the  senses 
cannot  reach,  nor  the  plumb  of  the  understanding  sound. 

Let  us  turn  now  to  the  Apollo  called  ((  Belvedere."  In  this 
supernal  being,  the  human  form  seems  to  have  been  assumed  as 
if  to  make  visible  the  harmonious  confluence  of  the  pure  ideas  of 
grace,  fleetness,  and  majesty;  nor  do  we  think  it  too  fanciful  to 
add  celestial  splendor;  for  such,  in  effect,  are  the  thoughts  which 
crowd,  or  rather  rush,  into  the  mind  on  first  beholding  it.  Who 
that  saw  it  in  what  may  be  called  the  place  of  its  glory,  the 
Gallery  of  Napoleon,  ever  thought  of  it  as  a  man,  much  less  as 
a  statue;  but  did  not  feel  rather  as  if  the  vision  before  him  were 
of  another  world, —  of  one  who  had  just  lighted  on  the  earth, 
and  with  a  step  so  ethereal,  that  the  next  instant  he  would  vault 
into  the  air  ?  If  I  may  be  permitted  to  recall  the  impression 
which  it  made  on  myself,  I  know  not  that  I  could  better  de- 
scribe it  than  as  a  sudden  intellectual  flash,  filling  the  whole 
mind  with  light, — and  light  in  motion.      It  seemed  to  the  mind 


154  WASHINGTON   ALLSTON 

what  the  first  sight  of  the  sun  is  to  the  senses,  as  it  emerges 
from  the  ocean;  when  from  a  point  of  light  the  whole  orb  at 
once  appears  to  bound  from  the  waters,  and  to  dart  its  rays,  as 
by  a  visible  explosion,  through  the  profound  of  space.  But,  as 
the  deified  Sun,  how  completely  is  the  conception  verified  in  the 
thoughts  that  follow  the  effulgent  original  and  its  marble  coun- 
terpart! Perennial  youth,  perennial  brightness,  follow  them  both. 
"Who  can  imagine  the  old  age  of  the  sun  ?  As  soon  may  we 
think  of  an  old  Apollo.  Now  all  this  may  be  ascribed  to  the 
imagination  of  the  beholder.  Granted, — yet  will  it  not  thus  be 
explained  away.  For  that  is  the  very  faculty  addressed  by  every 
work  of  Genius, —  whose  nature  is  suggestive;  and  only  when  it 
excites  to  or  awakens  congenial  thoughts  and  emotions,  filling: 
the  imagination  with  corresponding  images,  does  it  attain  its 
proper  end.  The  false  and  the  commonplace  can  never  do  this. 
It  were  easy  to  multiply  similar  examples;  the  bare  mention 
of  a  single  name  in  modern  art  might  conjure  up  a  host, —  the 
name  of  Michael  Angelo,  the  mighty  sovereign  of  the  Ideal,  than 
whom  no  one  ever  trod  so  near,  yet  so  securely,  the  dizzy  brink 

of  the  Impossible. 

From  his  discourses  on  Art. 


PRAISE   AS   A   DUTY 

There  is  one  thing  which  no  man,  however  generously  dis- 
posed, can  give,  but  which  every  one,  however  poor,  is 
bound  to  pay.  This  is  Praise.  He  cannot  give  it,  because 
it  is  not  his  own, —  since  what  is  dependent  for  its  very  existence 
on  something  in  another  can  never  become  to  him  a  possession; 
nor  can  he  justly  withhold  it,  when  the  presence  of  merit  claims 
it  as  a  consequence.  As  praise,  then,  cannot  be  made  a  gift,  so, 
neither,  when  not  his  due,  can  any  man  receive  it:  he  may  think 
he  does,  but  he  receives  only  words;  for  desert  being  the  essen- 
tial condition  of  praise,  there  can  be  no  reality  in  the  one  with- 
out the  other.  This  is  no  fanciful  statement,  for,  though  praise 
may  be  withheld  by  the  ignorant  or  envious,  it  cannot  be  but 
that,  in  the  course  of  time,  an  existing  merit  will,  on  some  one, 
produce  its  effects;  inasmuch  as  the  existence  of  any  cause  with- 
out its  effect  is  an  impossibility.  A  fearful  truth  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  this,  an  irreversible  justice  for  the  weal  or  woe  of  him 

who  confirms  or  violates  it.  „.  .it 

Written  on  his  studio  wall. 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON  155 


LIFE   AS   A   TEST   OF    FITNESS 


Let  no  man  trust  to  the  gentleness,  the  generosity,  or  seeming 
goodness  of  his  heart,  in  the  hope  that  they  alone  can  safely 
bear  him  through  the  temptations  of  this  world.  This  is  a 
state  of  probation,  and  a  perilous  passage  to  the  true  beginning 
of  life,  where  even  the  best  natures  need  continually  to  be  re- 
minded of  their  weakness,  and  to  find  their  only  security  in 
steadily  referring  all  their  thoughts,  acts,  affections,  to  the  ulti- 
mate end  of  their  being:  yet  where,  imperfect  as  we  are,  there  is 
no  obstacle  too  mighty,  no  temptation  too  strong,  to  the  truly 
humble  in  heart,  who,  distrusting  themselves,  seek  to  be  sustained 
only  by  that  holy  Being  who  is  life  and  power,  and  who,  in  his 
love  and  mercy,  has  promised  to  give  to  those  that  ask. 

Written  on  the  back  of  a  pencil  sketch. 


ART  AND    RELIGION 

A  real  debt  of  gratitude  —  that  is,  founded  on  a  disinterested 
act  of  kindness  —  cannot  be  canceled  by  any  subsequent 
unkindness  on  the  part  of  our  benefactor.  If  the  favor  be 
of  a  pecuniary  nature,  we  may,  indeed,  by  returning  an  equal  or 
greater  sum,  balance  the  moneyed  part;  but  we  cannot  liquidate 
the  kind  motive  by  the  setting  off  against  it  any  number  of  un- 
kind ones.  For  an  after  injury  can  no  more  undo  a  previous 
kindness  than  we  can  prevent  in  the  future  what  has  happened 
in  the  past.  So  neither  can  a  good  act  undo  an  ill  one:  a  fear- 
ful truth !  For  good  and  evil  have  a  moral  life,  which  nothing 
in  time  can  extinguish;  the  instant  they  exist,  they  start  for 
Eternity.  How,  then,  can  a  man  who  has  once  sinned,  and  who 
has  not  of  himself  cleansed  his  soul,  be  fit  for  heaven  where  no 
sin  can  enter  ?  I  seek  not  to  enter  into  the  mystery  of  the 
atonement,  <(  which  even  the  angels  sought  to  comprehend  and 
could  notw;  but  I  feel  its  truth  in  an  unutterable  conviction,  and 
that,  without  it,  all  flesh  must  perish.  Equally  deep,  too,  and  un- 
alienable, is  my  conviction  that  (<  the  fruit  of  sin  is  misery. w  A 
second  birth  to  the  soul  is  therefore  a  necessity  which  sin  forces 
upon  us  Aye, —  but  not  against  the  desperate  will  that  rejects  it. 
This  conclusion  was  not  anticipated  when  I  wrote  the  first 
sentence  of  the  preceding  paragraph.      But   it  does   not  surprise 


156  WASHINGTON   ALLSTON 

me,  for  it  is  but  a  recurrence  of  what  I  have  repeatedly  ex- 
perienced, namely,  that  I  never  lighted  on  any  truth  which  I 
inwardly  felt  as  such,  however  apparently  remote  from  our 
religious  being  (as,  for  instance,  in  the  philosophy  of  my  art), 
that,  by  following  it  out,  did  not  find  its  illustration  and  con- 
firmation in  some  great  doctrine  of  the  Bible, —  the  only  true 
philosophy,  the  sole  fountain  of  light,  where  the  dark  questions 
of  the  understanding  which  have  so  long  stood,  like  chaotic  spec- 
tres, between  the  fallen  soul  and  its  reason,  at  once  lose  their 
darkness  and  their  terror. 

Written  in  his  sketchbook. 


r57 


EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS 

(i  846-) 

(dmondo  de  Amicis,  one  of  the  most  attractive  prose  writers  of 
modern  Italy,  was  born  at  Oneglia,  October  21st,  1846.  From 
1865  to  1870,  he  served  in  the  Italian  army  from  which  he 
retired  to  devote  himself  to  literature.  His  books  of  travel  have 
been  extensively  translated, —  a  fact  due  chiefly  to  the  quality  of  the 
intellect  they  express,  but  also,  no  doubt,  to  the  method  which  is  illus- 
trated in  his  <(  Studies  of  Paris. w  It  is  a  collection  of  essays  on  the 
various  phases  of  Parisian  life,  written  with  strength  and  candor,  but 
without  malice,  from  the  standpoint  of  an  observer  to  whom  Parisian 
habits  are  still  strange  and  Parisian  ethics  still  unassimilated.  It  is 
doubtful  if  any  English  or  American  writer  has  written  of  Paris  and 
the  Parisians  so  well  and  truly  as  Amicis  has  done.  <(  They  are  a 
frivolous  people,  but  one  in  whom  a  noble  and  resolute  word  always 
finds  an  echo,"  he  says  of  the  Parisians.  As  their  favorite  Voltaire 
has  said  so  much  worse  things  of  them,  they  are  not  likely  to  com- 
plain that  Amicis  does  them  less  than  justice  when  he  adds  to  this 
that  (<  little  by  little  we  persuade  ourselves  that  many  of  the  diseases 
which  we  believed  to  be  caused  by  guilt  are  here  only  the  efflores- 
cence of  a  too  rich  blood. w 


THE   SHAMS,  SHAMELESSNESS,  AND  DELIGHTS   OF   PARIS 

The  idea  of  having  been  born  at  Paris,  of  having  had  that  sign 
of  predilection  from  God,  is  the  leading  thought  of  the 
Parisian,  like  a  star,  which  irradiates  his  whole  life  with  a 
heavenly  consolation.  The  benevolence  he  shows  to  all  strangers 
is  inspired  to  a  great  degree,  by  a  feeling  of  commiseration  for 
them,  and  his  dislike  of  them  is  not  a  profound  one,  simply 
from  the  fact  that  he  considers  his  enemies  sufficiently  punished 
by  the  fate  which  caused  them  to  be  born  where  they  were.  For 
this  reason  he  worships  all  the  childishness  and  vices  of  his  na- 
tive city,  and  is  proud  of  them,  only  because  they  belong  to  Paris, 
which,  to  his  mind,  is  above  all  human  criticism.      Can  one  find 


158  EDMONDO    DE   AMICIS 

any  capital  city  which  is  more  insolent  to  the  people  from  the 
provinces,  represented  by  its  writers  as  a  mass  of  cretins  ?  and 
authors  who  offer  incense  to  their  city  with  a  more  outrageous 
imprudence,  not  only  to  any  other  national  amour  propre,  but  to 
all  human  dignity  ?  They  will  tell  you  to  your  face  from  the 
stage  that  the  smoke  from  its  chimneys  are  the  ideas  of  the  uni- 
verse !  All  lie  prostrate  on  the  ground  before  this  enormous 
courtesan,  mother  and  nurse  of  all  vanities;  of  that  rabid  vanity 
of  pleasing  her  first  among  them  all,  of  obtaining  from  her,  at 
any  cost,  at  least  one  single  glance;  of  that  disgusting  vanity 
which  induces  a  writer  to  declare  himself,  in  the  preface  of  an 
infamous  novel,  capable  of  all  the  baseness  and  all  the  crimes  of 
Heliogabalus  and  Nero.  Take  then,  joking  aside,  their  prefaces 
full  of  grimaces,  puerilities,  boasts,  and  impostures.  Vanity  is 
stamped  upon  them  all.  There  is  not  in  all  contemporary  litera- 
ture one  of  those  grand,  modest,  benevolent,  and  logical  charac- 
ters which  write  with  the  splendors  of  the  mind,  the  dignity  of 
life ;  one  of  those  lofty  and  pure  figures,  before  which  one  uncov- 
ers his  head  with  hesitation  and  reserve,  and  whose  name  is  a 
title  of  nobility  and  a  comfort  to  humanity.  All  is  overpowered 
and  spoiled  by  the  mania  for  pose;  pose  in  literature,  pose  in 
religion,  pose  in  love,  pose  even  in  the  greatest  afflictions.  An 
immense  and  diseased  sensuality  constitutes  the  foundation  of 
that  life,  and  is  revealed  in  letters,  music,  architecture,  fashions, 
in  the  sound  of  the  voice,  glances,  and  even  in  the  gait.  Amuse- 
ment !  All  the  rest  is  only  a  means  of  attaining  this  end.  From 
one  limit  to  the  other  of  those  superb  boulevards  resounds  a  loud 
laugh  of  derision  for  all  the  scruples  and  all  the  modesty  of  the 
human  soul.  And  a  day  arrives  at  last  in  which  you  become 
indignant  at  that  life;  a  day  in  which  you  find  yourself  fearfully 
weary  of  that  theatre,  impregnated  with  the  odor  of  gas  and 
patchouli,  where  every  spectacle  ends  in  a  canzonet;  in  which 
you  are  satiated  with  puns,  blague,  dances,  dyes,  puffery,  cracked 
voices,  false  smiles,  and  purchased  pleasures;  then  you  despise 
that  shameless  city,  and  it  seems  to  you  that  in  order  to  purify 
yourself  after  three  months  of  that  life  you  ought  to  live  for  a 
year  on  the  summit  of  a  mountain,  and  you  feel  an  irresistible 
desire  to  run  through  green  fields  in  the  open  air,  to  smell  the 
odor  of  the  ground  and  to  refresh  your  soul  and  blood  in  soli- 
tude, face  to  face  with  nature. 


EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS  159 

The  fit  of  passion  is  over,  that  is  well.  (<  Let  us  stand  aside 
so  that  it  may  pass,"  as  the  Spanish  say.  At  Paris  you  can  say 
whatever  you  choose;  she  takes  no  more  notice  of  us  than  do 
the  elephants  in  the  zoological  gardens  of  the  children  whom 
they  carry  upon  their  backs  on  holidays.  But  these  are  not  our 
last  impressions  of  Paris. 

The  period  in  which  everything  looks  rose  color  and  that  in 
which  everything  seems  black,  is  followed  by  a  third  that  is  a 
return  in  the  direction  of  the  first;  that  period  in  which  one 
commences  to  live  peacefully  in  a  circle  of  choice  and  well-tried 
friends.  And  one  must  confess  it:  the  friend  found  there,  the 
good,  honest  Frenchman,  is  really  worth  two.  In  no  other  Euro- 
pean do  you  find  a  more  amiable  harmony  of  mind,  heart,  and 
manner.  Between  the  friendship,  more  expansive  than  profound, 
of  the  southern  Europeans,  and  that  deep,  but  reserved  one  of 
the  north,  you  prefer  this,  so  warm  and  cold  at  a  time  and  so 
full  of  solemnity  and  delicacy.  How  charming  it  is,  when  one  is 
weary  of  the  noise  of  the  great  city,  to  go  in  the  evening  to  the 
other  bank  of  the  Seine,  into  a  silent  street,  to  visit  the  quiet, 
little  family,  which  lives,  as  it  were,  on  an  island  in  the  middle 
of  that  turbulent  ocean.  What  a  warm  welcome  you  receive, 
what  unreserved  gayety  you  find  at  that  refined  but  modest 
table,  and  how  thoroughly  your  mind  rests  there.  Paris  itself 
offers  you  many  retreats  from  its  dangers  and  a  thousand  reme- 
dies for  its  fevers.  After  an  exciting  night,  with  what  inexpress- 
ible pleasure  do  you  dash  through  its  beautiful  groves,  and  the 
gay  suburbs  of  the  Seine,  where  you  find  the  gayety  of  a  coun- 
try festival,  and  with  its  vast  gardens  in  the  midst  of  an  enor- 
mous hive  of  children,  or  through  one  of  its  immense  and  solitary 
avenues,  in  which  the  heart  and  mind  expand,  and  the  sad  image 
of  the  Babylon  on  the  boulevards  seems  to  you  so  far  away. 
Everywhere  you  find  a  people  who  reveal  more  defects  the  more 
you  study  them;  but  in  whom  every  defect  is  counterbalanced 
by  some   admirable  quality. 

They  are  a  frivolous  people,  but  one  in  whom  a  noble  and 
resolute  word  always  finds  an  echo.  There  is  always  an  open 
and  safe  road  by  which  to  arrive  at  their  hearts.  There  is  no 
elevated  sentiment  or  beautiful  idea  which  does  not  take  root  in 
their  souls.  Their  quick  intelligence  makes  all  the  communica- 
tions of   the   mind   both  easy  and  agreeable.     The  chance  word, 


160  EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS 

shading,  half-uttered  suggestion,  that  which  is  taken  for  granted, 
the  accent  and  the  hint  are  seized  on  the  wing.  A  thousand 
people  reunited  have  but  one  soul  with  which  to  feel  and  com- 
prehend. It  is  impossible  not  to  be  attracted  by  those  fetes, 
tumultuous  gatherings,  in  which  enjoyment  makes  all  states  and 
conditions  equal,  and  an  innumerable  crowd  is  nothing  but  one 
immense  assembly  of  happy  thoughtless  friends.  Their  most 
obstinate  enemy  must  burst  out  into  a  hearty  laugh  and  open 
his  heart  to  all  this  benevolence,  because  underneath  all  the 
childishness  of  the  Parisian  there  lies  as  surely  a  fund  of  good- 
ness as  under  a  splendid  froth  an  excellent  wine.  He  is 
naturally  unreserved,  (his  manners  do  not  reveal  this  fact) ;  not 
diffident;  easier  to  be  deceived  than  to  deceive;  inclined  to  for- 
give injuries;  conciliating;  scornful  of  trivial  rancor  and  all  the 
petty  niggardliness  of  life.  He  is  constantly,  by  nature,  in  a 
state  of  mind  in  which  one  finds  every  one  after  a  gay  banquet 
where  wine  flows  freely;  equally  ready  to  commit  some  great 
folly  or  do  something  grand,  to  embrace  a  sworn  enemy,  to  pro- 
voke his  neighbors  by  a  word,  to  play  a  buffoon  trick  standing  on 
the  table,  or  to  take  pity  on  some  little  beggar  who  is  asking  for 
bread  at  the  door.  When  he  gets  beyond  the  little  circle  of  his 
ordinary  existence,  the  spectacle  of  that  immense  life  of  Paris 
exalts  all  his  faculties  and  all  his  good  and  bad  feelings.  We 
too  are  similarly  affected.  The  aggrandizement  in  the  propor- 
tions of  everything  gives  us  little  by  little  another  idea  of  the 
things  themselves.  Even  the  corruption  —  enormous  and  enticing 
as  it  is  —  ends  by  fascinating  us  like  a  vast  and  varied  field  of 
study,  rather  than  repelling  us  by  its  ugliness;  and  we  accustom 
ourselves  to  it  almost  as  if  it  were  a  needful  feature  of  life,  or  a 
grand  and  terrible  school,  containing  a  great  number  of  experi- 
ences and  ideas  and  set  in  motion  by  the  springs  of  a  thousand 
powerful  minds. 

In  the  Bullier  Hall,  amid  that  whirlpool  of  three  hundred  girls 
dancing  together  and  singing  in  a  perruque-blonde  voice,  instead 
of  an  outcry  against  corruption  there  springs  from  our  hearts  an 
inspiring  hymn  to  Truth  and  Life.  Disgusted  with  the  countries 
where  not  even  vice  and  its  language  are  original,  we  find  here, 
at  least,  the  absence  of  that  lowest  and  vilest  form  of  corruption, 
which  is  the  mania  for  feigning  it  out  of  vainglory,  when  one 
has  neither  the  strength  nor  means  of  enjoying  it  in  its  tremen- 


EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS  161 

dous  fullness.  Little  by  little,  we  persuade  ourselves  that  many  of 
the  diseases  which  we  believed  to  be  caused  by  guilt  are  here 
only  the  efflorescence  of  a  too  rich  blood,  while  it  is  the  lack  of 
vitality  which  makes  other  nations  flaunt  certain  negative  virtues 
in  the  face  of  Paris,  to  whom  one  might  say,  as  the  Messalina  of 
Cossa  did  to  Silio,  (<  You  are  so  corrupt  that  you  do  not  support 
the  greatness  of  Vice.M  Thus  in  all  the  different  phases  of  life 
you  find  there  (with  a  feeling  of  mingled  regret  for  yourself  and 
admiration  of  Paris)  the  original  of  a  thousand  things,  of  which 
at  home  you  have  seen  the  counterfeit  reduced  to  pocket  form 
for  a  more  diminutive  people. 

There  you  feel  disposed  to  lay  much  to  pride,  when  you  ob- 
serve things  at  no  great  distance,  and  can  put  yourself  in  the 
place  of  a  people  who  see  themselves  imitated  by  the  universe; 
who  see  gathered  and  carried  all  about  the  crumbs  from  their 
table,  renowned  works  made  from  the  cuttings  of  their  own; 
busts  raised  at  certain  times  and  in  certain  places  to  people  who 
have  no  other  merit  than  that  of  being  subscribers  to  the  Revue 
des  Deux  Mondes;  their  language  purloined  and  mixed  with 
many  foreign  ones,  their  novels  and  theatres  stolen,  all  the  hear- 
says of  their  history  and  chronicles  treasured  up;  the  whole  city 
known  like  the  psalm  of  one's  heart;  Tortoni  more  famous  than 
many  an  immortal  monument;  the  Maison  Doree,  the  first  of  all 
the  dreams  of  the  dissolute  of  the  whole  world;  their  fashions 
copied,  their  laughs  repeated,  their  jokes  rehearsed,  their  caprices 
adored;  and  one  can  also  understand  how  angry  they  grow  when 
one  of  their  most  pedantic  scholars  insults  them.  Why  should 
one  be  astonished  that  people  think  only  of  themselves  in  a 
country  so  ardently  admired,  by  deed  if  not  by  word  ?  But  this 
defect  is  not  injurious  to  them  or  to  others,  since  it  arises  from 
a  profound  knowledge  of  her  own  affairs,  from  regarding  them 
with  an  excess  of  affection,  and  from  the  belief  that  the  entire 
world  regards  with  the  same  esteem  that  warm,  high-colored, 
original,  and  vital  something,  which  they  exhibit  in  all  the  mani- 
festations of  themselves.  They  have  a  small  field  to  traverse, 
as  Schiller  said  of  himself  to  Goethe;  but  traverse  it  in  less  time 
in  all  its  parts.  For  this  reason  there  is  an  unending  continua- 
tion and  combination  of  direct  ideas  and  thoughts  toward  the 
same  point,  a  great  frequency  of  attrition  which  emits  light  and 
heat;  every  inch  of  space  is  disputed  by  a  thousand  contestants; 
i— ii 


1 62  EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS 

instead  of  walking  they  all  run,  instead  of  controversy  there  is 
the  fray.  And  in  this  perpetual  conflict  all  superfluous  baggage 
is  thrown  aside;  everything  is  made  a  weapon  of  offense  or  de- 
fense; thought  stripped  of  its  leaves;  language  restricted  and 
action  hastened;  art  and  life  equally  bold  and  rapid;  and  all  en- 
couraged by  the  great  gay  voice  of  the  great  city,  which  speaks 
in  shrill,  crystalline  tones,  heard  throughout  the  world. 

The  more  you  become  absorbed  in  the  study  of  that  life  the 
more  astonished  you  are  in  seeing  the  immense  amount  of  work 
accomplished  under  that  appearance  of  universal  dissipation. 
How  many  workmen  labor  in  solitude;  how  many  prepare,  with 
incredible  fatigue,  in  obscurity  —  for  public  combats;  how,  not 
only  every  kind  of  genius,  but  any  particular  faculty  scarcely 
more  than  mediocre,  finds  this  way  in  which  to  exercise  itself  to 
its  own  and  to  general  advantage ;  how  quickly  and  spontaneously 
a  circle  of  amicable  and  cultured  minds  (who  aid  it  in  rising  and 
becoming  known)  gather  around  every  genius;  how  the  slightest 
promise  of  success  in  the  field  of  intellect  awakens  in  all  classes 
a  pleasant  feeling  of  curiosity  and  respect,  eliciting  from  all  that 
anticipatory  tribute  of  glory  which  goes  so  far  toward  making  it 
a  reality;  what  an  extraordinary  impulse  to  human  strength  is 
the  certainty  of  the  sudden  and  broad  change  of  fortune  which 
a  great  success  produces  there;  how  grand  and  intoxicating  in 
that  city  is  the  triumph  of  genius,  which,  scarcely  noticed  by 
her,  receives  the  salutations  of  unknown  admirers,  and  offers  and 
counsels  from  every  part  of  the  globe;  how,  to  the  man  unsuc- 
cessful in  one  direction,  a  hundred  other  roads  remain  open  if 
he  be  willing  to  lower  to  a  very  slight  degree  his  pretension  to 
glory;  how  the  forgetful  nature  of  that  great  city,  which,  not 
permitting  any  one  to  rest  upon  one  triumph,  obliges  all  to  rep- 
resent themselves  continually  at  the  contest,  produces  that  mar- 
velously  busy  life,  those  obstinately  warlike  old  men,  whose 
example  inspires  coming  generations  with  the  passion  for  work; 
and,  in  fine,  what  an  enormous  quantity  of  unfinished  work,  of 
attempts,  sketches,  of  material  spoiled  by  some,  but  not  useless 
to  others,  and  of  creations  in  all  fields  praiseworthy,  but  con- 
demned to  die  where  they  arise,  because  they  are  crushed  by  the 
abundance  of  something  better. 

When  one  has  observed  all  this,  the  sojourn  in  Paris  becomes 
agreeable  and  useful,  if   only  in  watching   the  workings  of  that 


EDMONDO    DE    AMICIS  163 

immense  machine  as  she  polishes,  perfects,  transforms,  squeezes 
out,  and  grinds  the  inexhaustible  material  of  genius,  wealth, 
youth,  ambition,  and  courage,  which  France  and  the  world  con- 
tinually throw  under  her  formidable  wheels,  and  how  she  casts 
from  the  opposite  side  great  names,  frustrated  celebrities,  master- 
pieces, immortal  words,  broken  bones,  weapons,  gems,  and  frag- 
ments, which  France  and  the  world  hasten  to  gather  and  comment 
upon.  Censure  this  Colossus  ?  Cry  out  against  her  workmen  be- 
cause they  drink  absinthe,  sing  falsetto,  and  have  a  woman  await- 
ing them  at  the  door  ?     What  pedantry ! 

But  even  this  is  not  the  last  impression  which  one  receives  of 
Paris.  In  remaining  there  for  some  time,  one  passes  through  an- 
other set  of  enthusiasms  and  disillusions.  Many  an  evening  do 
you  return  home,  between  those  interminable  rows  of  lights,  mel- 
ancholy and  weary  unto  death  of  everything,  with  a  raging  love 
for  your  country  in  your  heart.  Then  you  become  reconciled 
with  the  city  on  a  beautiful  autumn  day,  in  witnessing  one  of 
those  noisy  expansions  of  joy  which  calm  the  darkened  soul.  At 
another  time  a  little  humiliation,  a  stupid  play  of  words,  repeated 
by  a  million  mouths,  a  scene  of  nauseating  obscenity,  a  dark  and 
gloomy  sky  change  the  aspect  of  everything,  and  such  violent 
antipathies  and  dislikes  arise  within  you,  that  you  would  like  to 
see  that  city  disappear  like  an  encampment  carried  off  by  a  hur- 
ricane. But  you  will  be  ashamed  of  that  feeling  some  other  day, 
in  thinking  of  the  immensity  of  the  vacuum  in  your  mind  if  all 
that  the  city  has  placed  there  from  the  time  of  your  infancy  to 
the  present  day  should  suddenly  leave  it. 

Up  to  the  last  moment  Paris  will  cause  you  many  annoy- 
ances and  give  you  many  caresses,  like  a  beautiful  but  nervous 
woman,  and  you  will  experience  all  the  heights  and  depths  of  a 
passion  —  to-day  at  her  feet  in  humility,  to-morrow  seized  by  a 
desire  to  insult  her,  and  then  again  to  ask  her  pardon,  so  fasci- 
nated are  you.  Yet  every  day  you  will  find  the  ties  that  bind 
you  to  her  growing  stronger.  And  this  you  feel  more  than  ever 
on  going  away;  the  evening  you  pass  rapidly  for  the  last  time 
through  that  immense  splendor  of  boulevards,  which  is  suddenly 
succeeded  by  the  half  darkness  of  an  enormous  and  gloomy  sta- 
tion. Then,  despite  of  the  desire  you  have  to  see  your  home, 
you  are  seized  by  a  feeling  of  sadness  at  the  thought  of  return- 
ing  into    that   dormitory  of   a   city  from   which    you    started,  and 


1 64  EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS 

you  listen  for  the  last  time  to  the  distant  noise  of  Paris  with  an 
inexplicable  feeling  of  desire  and  envy.  And  from  the  end  of 
the  coupe  in  the  darkness,  you  see  the  city  once  more,  as  you 
saw  it  one  beautiful  July  morning  from  a  tower  of  Notre  Dame; 
traversed  by  the  enormous  blue  arch  of  the  Seine,  with  its  dis- 
tant violet-hued  horizons,  immense  and  smoky  at  the  moment, 
when,  from  a  square  lying  beneath,  the  drums  of  a  regiment  sent 
up  to  you  an  echo  of  the  battle  of  Magenta.  <(  Oh,  beautiful  and 
tremendous  sinner, w  you  then  exclaim,  <(  I  absolve  thee,  and  at 
the  risk  of  the  damnation  of  my  soul  I  love  thee ! w 

From  <(  Studies  of  Paris. »    Copyright  by  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons,  New  York.     By  permission. 


"65 


HENRI    FREDERIC   AMIEL 

(1821-1881) 

imiel's  <(  Journal  Intime M  represents  a  form  of  essay  writing 
which  has  many  advantages  over  the  ordinary,  but  as  it  re- 
quires the  essayist  to  look  forward  to  his  own  death  as 
prerequisite  to  the  publication  of  the  work  which  is  to  give  him  lit- 
erary immortality,  its  popularity  with  writers  themselves  is  never 
likely  to  be  great.  With  readers,  however,  if  Amiel's  imitators  equal 
his  work,  it  is  not  likely  to  fail  of  the  highest  favor.  When  pub- 
lished in  England  and  America  in  the  translation  of  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward,  Amiel's  (<  Journal M  took  its  place  at  once  among  the  classics 
of  the  language,  and  Mrs.  Ward  may  be  remembered  by  it  among 
generations  not  well  enough  informed  of  the  merits  of  nineteenth- 
century  fiction  to  remember  even  the   titles  of  her  excellent  novels. 

Though  unmistakably  written  for  ultimate  publication,  the  literary 
pretext  of  privacy  given  Amiel's  work  by  its  inscription  in  a  journal 
of  the  writer's  inner  life  allows  a  freedom  which  could  not  have 
been  attained  otherwise  and,  as  an  incident  of  this  freedom  of  ex- 
pression, a  scope  as  wide  as  the  daily  reflections  suggested  to  a  man 
of  high  cultivation  by  close  observation  of  all  the  manifold  phenom- 
ena of  a  highly  organized  civilization.  Perhaps  no  other  single  book 
represents  the  cultured  life  of  the  last  half  of  the  nineteenth  century 
so  well  as  Amiel's  <(  Journal,"  though  he  himself  was  far  removed 
from  that  positivism  which,  in  France  and  Germany  as  well  as  in 
England  and  America,  did  so  much  to  give  its  tone  to  the  literature 
of  the  period. 

In  their  style,  the  entries  in  the  (<  Journal, w  whether  (<  Essays w  or 
"Pensees,"  represent  the  best  results  of  careful  method.  Seemingly 
the  unstudied  expression  of  unpremeditated  ideas,  they  win  the  read- 
er's friendship  and  draw  him  into  the  most  confidential  relations 
with  the  writer.  If  they  have  a  vitiating  quality,  it  is  suggested  by 
their  form  itself  and  by  their  author's  action  in  leaving  them  to 
achieve  for  him  a  posthumous  celebrity.  They  are  sometimes  almost 
too  delicate,  and  they  have  an  inspiration  of  "Weltschmerz," — a  mild 
dissatisfaction  with  life  which,  if  it  is  at  times  inevitable,  even  in  the 
best-regulated  lives,  ought  the  more  on  that  account  to  be  kept  out 
of  literature  in  a  world  which  needs  ft  Heave-ho B  songs  for  the  men 
at  its  capstans  more  than  it  does  new  dirges  for  its  dead. 


j  56  HENRI   FREDERIC    AMIEL 

Of  Amiel  Mrs.  Ward  writes  that  he  "lived  alone  and  died  sadly 
persuaded  that  his  life  had  been  a  barren  mistake,  whereas,  all  the 
while, —  such  is  the  irony  of  things, —  he  had  been  in  reality  working 
out  the  mission  assigned  him  in  the  spiritual  economy,  and  faithfully 
obeying  the  secret  mandate  which  had  impressed  itself  upon  his 
youthful  consciousness :  *  Let  the  living  live ;  and  you,  gather  together 
your  thoughts,  leave  behind  you  a  legacy  of  feelings  and  ideas,  and 
you  will  be  most  useful  so.)W 

Amiel  was  born  at  Geneva  in  1821.  After  completing  his  scholas- 
tic education  at  Berlin  in  1848,  he  became  professor  of  Esthetics  and 
French  Literature  in  the  Academy  of  Geneva.  After  four  years  (in 
1853)  he  became  professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  same  institu- 
tion. He  made  no  reputation  during  his  life  and  attempted  to  make 
none.  Not  until  his  <(  Journal w  was  read  after  his  death,  did  any  one 
suspect  that  another  of  the  immortals  had  come  and  gone  unrecog- 
nized. W.  V.  B. 


A  SOAP  BUBBLE  HANGING  FROM  A  REED 

Our  life  is  but  a  soap  bubble  hanging  from  a  reed;  it  is 
formed,  expands  to  its  full  size,  clothes  itself  with  the  love- 
liest colors  of  the  prism,  and  even  escapes  at  moments 
from  the  law  of  gravitation;  but  soon  the  black  speck  appears 
in  it,  and  the  globe  of  emerald  and  gold  vanishes  into  space, 
leaving  behind  it  nothing  but  a  simple  drop  of  turbid  water. 
All  the  poets  have  made  this  comparison,  it  is  so  striking  and  so 
true.  To  appear,  to  shine,  to  disappear;  to  be  born,  to  suffer, 
and  to  die;  is  it  not  the  whole  sum  of  life,  for  a  butterfly,  for  a 
nation,  for  a  star  ? 

Time  is  but  the  measure  of  the  difficulty  of  a  conception. 
Pure  thought  has  scarcely  any  need  of  time,  since  it  perceives 
the  two  ends  of  an  idea  almost  at  the  same  moment.  The 
thought  of  a  planet  can  only  be  worked  out  by  nature  with  labor 
and  effort,  but  supreme  intelligence  sums  up  the  whole  in  an 
instant.  Time  is  then  the  successive  dispersion  of  being,  just  as 
speech  is  the  successive  analysis  of  an  intuition  or  of  an  act  of 
will.  In  itself  it  is  relative  and  negative,  and  disappears  within 
the  absolute  being.  God  is  outside  time  because  he  thinks  all 
thought  at  once;  Nature  is  within  time  because  she  is  only 
speech, — the  discursive  unfolding  of  each  thought  contained  within 
the  infinite  thought.  But  Nature  exhausts  herself  in  this  impos- 
sible   task,    for    the    analysis    of    the    infinite    is    a    contradiction. 


HENRI    FREDERIC    AMIEL 


167 


With  limitless  duration,  boundless  space,  and  number  without 
end,  Nature  does  at  least  what  she  can  to  translate  into  visible 
form  the  wealth  of  the  creative  formula.  By  the  vastness  of  the 
abysses  into  which  she  penetrates,  in  the  effort  —  the  unsuccess- 
ful effort  —  to  house  and  contain  the  eternal  thought,  we  may 
measure  the  greatness  of  the  Divine  mind.  For  as  soon  as  this 
mind  goes  out  of  itself  and  seeks  to  explain  itself,  the  effort  at 
utterance  heaps  universe  upon  universe,  during  myriads  of  cen- 
turies, and  still  it  is  not  expressed,  and  the  great  harangue  must 
go  on  forever  and  ever. 

The  East  prefers  immobility  as  the  form  of  the  Infinite :  the 
West,  movement.  It  is  because  the  West  is  infected  by  the  pas- 
sion for  details,  and  sets  proud  store  by  individual  worth.  Like 
a  child  upon  whom  a  hundred  thousand  francs  have  been  be- 
stowed, he  thinks  she  is  multiplying  her  fortune  by  counting  it 
out  in  pieces  of  twenty  sous,  or  five  centimes.  Her  passion  for 
progress  is  in  great  part  the  product  of  an  infatuation,  which 
consists  in  forgetting  the  goal  to  be  aimed  at,  and  absorbing 
herself  in  the  pride  and  delight  of  each  tiny  step,  one  after  the 
other.  Child  that  she  is,  she  is  even  capable  of  confounding 
change  with  improvement  —  beginning  over  again,  with  growth 
in  perfectness. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  modern  man  there  is  always  a  great 
thirst  for  self-forgetfulness,  self-distraction;  he  has  a  secret  horror 
of  all  which  makes  him  feel  his  own  littleness;  the  eternal,  the 
infinite,  perfection,  therefore  scare  and  terrify  him.  He  wishes 
to  approve  himself,  to  admire  and  congratulate  himself;  and 
therefore  he  turns  away  from  all  those  problems  and  abysses 
which  might  recall  to  him  his  own  nothingness.  This  is  what 
makes  the  real  pettiness  of  so  many  of  our  great  minds,  and  ac- 
counts for  the  lack  of  personal  dignity  among  us  —  civilized  par- 
rots that  we  are  —  as  compared  with  the  Arab  of  the  desert;  or 
explains  the  growing  frivolity  of  our  masses,  more  and  more  edu- 
cated, no  doubt,  but  also  more  and  more  superficial  in  all  their 
conceptions  of  happiness. 

Here,  then,  is  the  service  which  Christianity  —  the  Oriental 
element  in  our  culture  —  renders  to  us  Westerners.  It  checks  and 
counterbalances  our  natural  tendency  toward  the  passing,  the 
finite,  and  the  changeable,  by  fixing  the  mind  upon  the  contem- 
plation of  eternal  things,  and  by  Platonizing  our  affections,  which 
otherwise    would   have    too   little   outlook   upon   the    ideal    world. 


l6g  HENRI    FREDERIC    AMIEL 

Christianity  leads  us  back  from  dispersion  to  concentration,  from 
worldliness  to  self-recollection.  It  restores  to  our  souls,  fevered 
with  a  thousand  sordid  desires,  nobleness,  gravity,  and  calm. 
Just  as  sleep  is  a  bath  of  refreshing  for  our  actual  life,  so  reli- 
gion is  a  bath  of  refreshing  for  our  immortal  being.  What  is 
sacred  has  a  purifying  virtue;  religious  emotion  crowns  the  brow 
with  an  aureole,  and  thrills  the  heart  with  an  ineffable  joy. 

I  think  that  the  adversaries  of  religion  as  such  deceive  them- 
selves as  to  the  needs  of  the  Western  man,  and  that  the  modern 
world  will  lose  its  balance  as  soon  as  it  has  passed  over  alto- 
gether to  the  crude  doctrine  of  progress.  We  have  always  need 
of  the  infinite,  the  eternal,  the  absolute;  and  since  science  con- 
tents itself  with  what  is  relative,  it  necessarily  leaves  a  void, 
which  it  is  good  for  man  to  fill  with  contemplation,  worship,  and 
adoration.  (<  Religion, B  said  Bacon,  <(  is  the  spice  which  is  meant 
to  keep  life  from  corruption, w  and  this  is  especially  true  to-day 
of  religion  taken  in  the  Platonist  and  Oriental  sense.  A  capacity 
for  self -recollection  —  for  withdrawal  from  the  outward  to  the  in- 
ward—  is  in  fact  the  condition  of  all  noble  and  useful  activity. 

This  return,  indeed,  to  what  is  serious,  divine,  and  sacred  is 
becoming  more  and  more  difficult,  because  of  the  growth  of  crit- 
ical anxiety  within  the  Church  itself,  the  increasing  worldliness 
of  religious  preaching,  and  the  universal  agitation  and  disquiet  of 
society.  But  such  a  return  is  more  and  more  necessary.  With- 
out it  there  is  no  inner  life,  and  the  inner  life  is  the  only  means 
whereby  we  may  oppose  a  profitable  resistance  to  circumstance. 
If  the  sailor  did  not  carry  with  him  his  own  temperature,  he 
could  not  go  from  the  pole  to  the  equator,  and  remain  himself 
in  spite  of  all.  The  man  who  has  no  refuge  in  himself,  who 
lives,  so  to  speak,  in  his  front  rooms,  in  the  outer  whirlwind  of 
things  and  opinions,  is  not  properly  a  personality  at  all;  he  is 
not  distinct,  free,  original,  a  cause — in  a  word,  some  one.  He  is 
one  of  a  crowd,  a  taxpayer,  an  elector,  an  anonymity,  but  not  a 
man.  He  helps  to  make  up  the  mass  —  to  fill  up  the  number  of 
human  consumers  or  producers;  but  he  interests  nobody  but  the 
economist  and  the  statistician,  who  take  the  heap  of  sand  as  a 
whole  into  consideration,  without  troubling  themselves  about  the 
uninteresting  uniformity  of  the  individual  grains.  The  crowd 
counts  only  as  a  massive  elementary  force  —  why?  because  its 
constituent  parts  are  individually  insignificant;  they  are  all  like 
each  other,  and  we  add  them  up  like  the  molecules  of  water  in  a 


HENRI    FREDERIC    AMIEL 


169 


river,  gauging  them  by  the  fathom  instead  of  appreciating  them 
as  individuals.  Such  men  are  reckoned  and  weighed  merely  as 
so  many  bodies;  they  have  never  been  individualized  by  con- 
science, after  the  manner  of  souls. 

He  who  floats  with  the  current,  who  does  not  guide  himself 
according  to  higher  principles,  who  has  no  ideal,  no  convictions, — 
such  a  man  is  a  mere  article  of  the  world's  furniture  —  a  thing 
moved,  instead  of  a  living  and  moving  being  —  an  echo,  not  a 
voice.  The  man  who  has  no  inner  life  is  the  slave  of  his  sur- 
roundings, as  the  barometer  is  the  obedient  servant  of  the  air  at 
rest,  and  the  weathercock  the  humble  servant  of  the  air  in  mo- 
tion. January  7th,  1866. 


«JOHN   HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN  » 

The  novel  by  Miss  Mulock,  (<  John  Halifax,  Gentleman, w  is  a 
bolder  book  than  it  seems,  for  it  attacks  in  the  English  way 
the  social  problem  of  equality.  And  the  solution  reached  is 
that  every  one  may  become  a  gentleman,  even  though  he  may  be 
born  in  the  gutter.  In  its  way  the  story  protests  against  con- 
ventional superiorities,  and  shows  that  true  nobility  consists  in 
character,  in  personal  merit,  in  moral  distinction,  in  elevation  of 
feeling  and  of  language,  in  dignity  of  life,  and  in  self-respect. 
This  is  better  than  Jacobinism,  and  the  opposite  of  the  mere 
brutal  passion  for  equality.  Instead  of  dragging  everybody  down, 
the  author  simply  proclaims  the  right  of  every  one  to  rise.  A 
man  may  be  born  rich  and  noble  —  he  is  not  born  a  gentleman. 
This  word  is  the  Shibboleth  of  England;  it  divides  her  into 
halves,  and  civilized  society  into  two  castes.  Among  gentlemen 
—  courtesy,  equality,  and  politeness;  toward  those  below  —  con- 
tempt, disdain,  coldness,  and  indifference.  It  is  the  old  separation 
between  the  ingenni  and  all  others;  between  the  UzbOspoi  and  the 
fidvautrot,  the  continuation  of  the  feudal  division  between  the  gen- 
try and  the  roturicrs. 

What,  then,  is  a  gentleman  ?  Apparently  he  is  the  free  man, 
the  man  who  is  stronger  than  things,  and  believes  in  personality 
as  superior  to  all  the  accessory  attributes  of  fortune,  such  as  rank 
and  power,  and  as  constituting  what  is  essential,  real,  and  intrin- 
sically valuable  in  the  individual.  Tell  me  what  you  are,  and  I 
will  tell  you  what  you  are   worth.     (<  God  and  my  Right w;  there 


I70  HENRI   FREDERIC    AMIEL 

is  the  only  motto  he  believes  in.  Such  an  ideal  is  happily  op- 
posed to  that  vulgar  ideal  which  is  equally  English,  the  ideal  of 
wealth,  with  its  formula,  ((  How  much  is  he  worth  ? w  In  a  coun- 
try where  poverty  is  a  crime,  it  is  good  to  be  able  to  say  that  a 
nabob  need  not  as  such  be  a  gentleman.  The  mercantile  ideal 
and  the  chivalrous  ideal  counterbalance  each  other;  and  if  the 
one  produces  the  ugliness  of  English  society  and  its  brutal  side, 
the  other  serves  as  a  compensation. 

The  gentleman,  then,  is  the  man  who  is  master  of  himself, 
who  respects  himself,  and  makes  others  respect  him.  The  essence 
of  gentlemanliness  is  self-rule,  the  sovereignty  of  the  soul.  It 
means  a  character  which  possesses  itself,  a  force  which  governs 
itself,  a  liberty  which  affirms  and  regulates  itself,  according  to 
the  type  of  true  dignity.  Such  an  ideal  is  closely  akin  to  the 
Roman  type  of  dignitas  cum  auctoritate.  It  is  more  moral  than 
intellectual,  and  is  particularly  suited  to  England,  which  is  pre- 
eminently the  country  of  will.  But  from  self-respect  a  thousand 
other  things  are  derived  —  such  as  the  care  of  a  man's  person,  of 
his  language,  of  his  manners;  watchfulness  over  his  body  and  over 
his  soul;  dominion  over  his  instincts  and  his  passions;  the  effort 
to  be  self-sufficient;  the  pride  which  will  accept  no  favor;  care- 
fulness not  to  expose  himself  to  any  humiliation  or  mortification, 
and  to  maintain  himself  independent  of  any  human  caprice;  the 
constant  protection  of  his  honor  and  of  his  self-respect.  Such  a 
condition  of  sovereignty,  insomuch  as  it  is  only  easy  to  the  man 
who  is  well-born,  well-bred,  and  rich,  was  naturally  long  identi- 
fied with  birth,  rank,  and  above  all  with  property.  The  idea 
<( gentleman  w  is,  then,  derived  from  feudality;  it  is,  as  it  were,  a 
milder  version  of  the  seigneur. 

In  order  to  lay  himself  open  to  no  reproach,  a  gentleman  will 
keep  himself  irreproachable;  in  order  to  be  treated  with  consid- 
eration, he  will  always  be  careful  himself  to  observe  distances,  to 
apportion  respect,  and  to  observe  all  the  gradations  of  conventional 
politeness,  according  to  rank,  age,  and  situation.  Hence  it  follows 
that  he  will  be  imperturbably  cautious  in  the  presence  of  a  stran- 
ger, whose  name  and  worth  are  unknown  to  him,  and  to  whom 
he  might  perhaps  show  too  much  or  too  little  courtesy.  He  ig- 
nores and  avoids  him;  if  he  is  approached,  he  turns  away;  if 
he  is  addressed,  he  answers  shortly  and  with  hauteur.  His  po- 
liteness is  not  human  and  general,  but  individual  and  relative  to 
persons.       This  is  why  every  Englishman   contains    two  different 


HENRI    FREDERIC    AMIEL  I?I 

men  —  one  turned  toward  the  world,  and  another.  The  first,  the 
outer  man,  is  a  citadel, —  a  cold  and  angular  wall;  the  other,  the 
inner  man,  is  a  sensible,  affectionate,  cordial,  and  loving  creature. 
Such  a  type  is  only  formed  in  a  moral  climate  full  of  icicles, 
where,  in  the  face  of  an  indifferent  world,  the  hearth  alone  is 
hospitable. 

So  that  an  analysis  of  the  national  type  of  gentleman  reveals 
to  us  the  nature  and  the  history  of  the  nation,  as  the  fruit  re- 
veals the  tree.  April  6th,  1866. 


MOZART   AND    BEETHOVEN 

The  work  of  Mozart,  penetrated  as  it  is  with  mind  and  thought, 
represents  a  solved  problem,  a  balance  struck  between  as- 
piration and  executive  capacity,  the  sovereignty  of  a  grace 
which  is  always  mistress  of  itself,  marvelous  harmony  and  perfect 
unity.  His  quartet  describes  a  day  in  one  of  those  Attic  souls 
who  prefigure  on  earth  the  serenity  of  Elysium.  The  first  scene 
is  a  pleasant  conversation,  like  that  of  Socrates  on  the  banks  of 
the  Ilissus;  its  chief  mark  is  an  exquisite  urbanity.  The  second 
scene  is  deeply  pathetic.  A  cloud  has  risen  in  the  blue  of  this 
Greek  heaven.  A  storm,  such  as  life  inevitably  brings  with  it, 
even  in  the  case  of  great  souls  who  love  and  esteem  each  other, 
has  come  to  trouble  the  original  harmony.  What  is  the  cause  of 
it  —  a  misunderstanding,  a  piece  of  neglect  ?  Impossible  to  say, 
but  it  breaks  out  notwithstanding.  The  andante  is  a  scene  of 
reproach  and  complaint,  but  as  between  immortals.  What  lofti- 
ness in  complaint;  what  dignity,  what  feeling,  what  noble  sweet- 
ness in  reproach!  The  voice  trembles  and  grows  graver,  but 
remains  affectionate  and  dignified.  Then,  the  storm  has  passed, 
the  sun  has  come  back,  the  explanation  has  taken  place,  peace  is 
re-established.  The  third  scene  paints  the  brightness  of  recon- 
ciliation. Love,  in  its  restored  confidence,  and  as  though  in  sly 
self-testing,  permits  itself  even  gentle  mocking  and  friendly  badi- 
nage. And  the  finale  brings  us  back  to  that  tempered  gayety 
and  happy  serenity,  that  supreme  freedom,  flower  of  the  inner 
life,  which  is  the  leading  motive  of  the  whole  composition. 

In  Beethoven  on  the  other  hand,  a  spirit  of  tragic  irony 
paints  for  you  the  mad  tumult  of  existence  as  it  dances  forever 
above  the  threatening  abyss  of  the  infinite.     No  more  unity,  no 


I7,  HENRI  FREDERIC   AMIEL 

more  satisfaction,  no  more  serenity!  We  are  spectators  of  the 
eternal  duel  between  the  great  forces,  that  of  the  abyss  which 
absorbs  all  finite  things,  and  that  of  life  which  defends  and  as- 
serts itself,  expands,  and  enjoys.  The  first  bars  break  the  seals 
and  open  the  caverns  of  the  great  deep.  The  struggle  begins. 
It  is  long.  Life  is  born,  and  disports  itself  gay  and  careless  as 
the  butterfly  which  flutters  above  a  precipice.  Then  it  expands 
the  realm  of  its  conquests,  and  chants  its  successes.  It  founds 
a  kingdom,  it  constructs  a  system  of  nature.  But  the  typhon 
rises  from  the  yawning  gulf,  and  the  Titans  beat  upon  the  gates 
of  the  new  empire.  A  battle  of  giants  begins.  You  hear  the 
tumultuous  efforts  of  the  powers  of  chaos.  Life  triumphs  at 
last,  but  the  victory  is  not  final,  and  through  all  the  intoxication 
of  it  there  is  a  certain  note  of  terror  and  bewilderment.  The 
soul  of  Beethoven  was  a  tormented  soul.  The  passion  and  the 
awe  of  the  infinite  seemed  to  toss  it  to  and  fro  from  heaven  to 
hell.  Hence  its  vastness.  Which  is  the  greater,  Mozart  or  Bee- 
thoven ?  Idle  question !  The  one  is  more  perfect,  the  other 
more  colossal.  The  first  gives  you  the  peace  of  perfect  art, 
beauty,  at  first  sight.  The  second  gives  you  sublimity,  terror, 
pity,  a  beauty  of  second  impression.  The  one  gives  that  for 
which  the  other  rouses  a  desire.  Mozart  has  the  classic  purity 
of  light  and  the  blue  ocean;  Beethoven  the  romantic  grandeur 
which  belongs  to  the  storms  of  air  and  sea,  and  while  the  soul 
of  Mozart  seems  to  dwell  on  the  ethereal  peaks  of  Olympus,  that 
of  Beethoven  climbs  shuddering  the  storm-beaten  sides  of  a 
Sinai.  Blessed  be  they  both !  Each  represents  a  moment  of  the 
ideal  life,  each  does  us  good.     Our  love  is  due  to  both. 

December  17th,  1856. 


173 


SAINT  THOMAS  AQUINAS 

{c.  1225-1274) 

'homas  Aquinas,  the  greatest  theologian  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
was  called  the  <(  Father  of  Moral  Philosophy w  and  the  ((  An- 
gelic Doctor w  by  his  contemporaries,  and  he  is  so  far  from 
suffering  under  modern  tests,  that  he  is  probably  in  greater  favor  in 
the  Catholic  Church  at  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth  century  than 
he  was  in  the  thirteenth.  He  was  born  near  Aquino,  Italy,  in  1225, 
according  to  some  authorities,  while  others  put  the  date  of  his  birth 
two  years  later.  He  owed  the  first  great  stimulus  his  intellect  re- 
ceived to  Albertus  Magnus,  under  whom  he  studied  in  the  Dominican 
School  at  Cologne.  He  followed  Albertus  to  Paris,  and,  after  gradu- 
ating there  in  theology,  entered  on  the  career  as  teacher  and  lec- 
turer, which  made  him  famous  throughout  Europe.  As  a  scholastic 
philosopher  Saint  Thomas  used  the  mode  of  Aristotle  in  developing 
and  illustrating  the  principles  of  Christian  theology.  It  is  to  his 
skill  in  this  that  he  owes  the  attractiveness  he  has  for  the  modern 
mind.  The  resemblance  of  his  style  as  an  essayist  to  that  of  Lord 
Bacon  is  unquestionably  due  to  the  fact  that  both  had  Aristotle  for  a 
model.  While  on  his  way  to  Rome  to  attempt  the  settlement  of  dif- 
ferences between  the  Eastern  and  Western  churches,  he  died  in  the 
monastery  of  Fossa  Nuova,  near  Terracina  in  Italy,  March  7th,  1274. 
He  was  canonized  by  Pope  John  XXII.  in  1323. 


THE    EFFECTS   OF    LOVE 

There  are  three  regards  of  union  to  love.  One  union  is  the 
cause  of  love:  in  the  love  with  which  one  loves  oneself  this 
is  a  substantial  union;  while  in  the  love  with  which  one 
loves  other  beings,  it  is  a  union  of  likeness.  Another  union  is 
essentially  love  itself;  and  this  is  union  of  hearts:  which  is  lik- 
ened to  substantial  union,  inasmuch  as  the  lover  is  to  the  object 
of  his  love  as  to  himself  in  the  love  of  friendship ;  as  to  something 
belonging  to  himself  in  the  love  of  desire.  A  third  union  is  the 
effect    of   love;    and   this    is    a   real    union   which  the   lover  seeks 


I74  SAINT   THOMAS   AQUINAS 

with   the  object  of  his  love,  that  they  should  live  together,  con- 
verse together,  and  in  other  relations  be  conjoined. 

Zeal,  whichever  way  we  look  at  it,  comes  of  intensity  of  love. 
For  clearly,  the  greater  the  intensity  wherewith  any  power  tends 
to  an  end,  the  more  vigorously  does  it  bear  down  all  opposition 
or  resistance.  Since  therefore  love  is  a  certain  movement  towards 
the  object  loved,  intense  love  seeks  to  banish  all  opposition,  but 
in  different  ways,  according  as  it  is  the  love  of  desire  or  of 
friendship.  In  the  love  of  desire,  he  who  desires  intensely  is 
moved  against  all  that  stands  in  the  way  of  his  gaining  or  quietly 
enjoying  the  object  of  his  love;  and  in  this  way  those  who  seek 
pre-eminence  are  moved  against  men  of  seeming  eminence  as 
being  hindrances  to  their  pre-eminence;  and  this  is  the  zeal  of 
envy.  But  the  love  of  friendship  seeks  the  good  of  the  friend: 
hence,  when  it  is  intense,  it  makes  a  man  bestir  himself  against 
all  that  conflicts  with  the  good  of  his  friend.  And  in  this  way 
we  are  said  to  be  zealous  on  behalf  of  a  friend,  when  if  anything 
is  said  or  done  against  our  friend's  good,  we  endeavor  to  repel 
it.  In  this  way  also  we  are  zealous  for  God,  when  we  endeavor 
according  to  our  power  to  repel  what  goes  against  the  honor  and 
will  of  God,  according  to  the  text,  ((  With  zeal  have  I  been  zeal- 
ous for  the  Lord  God  of  hosts. B  And  on  the  text,  (<  The  zeal  of 
thy  house  hath  eaten  me  up, w  the  gloss  (on  St.  John  ii.  1 7)  says : 
(<  He  is  eaten  up  with  a  good  zeal,  who  endeavors  to  correct  all 
the  evil  that  he  sees;  and  if  he  cannot,  tolerates  and  laments  it.* 

Love  denotes  a  certain  conformation  of  the  appetitive  power 
to  some  good.  Now  nothing  is  wasted  away  or  injured  by  sim- 
ple conformation  to  an  object  suited  to  itself,  but  rather,  if  pos- 
sible, it  is  perfected  and  bettered  thereby;  whereas  what  is 
conformed  to  an  object  not  suited  to  it  is  thereby  wasted  and 
altered  for  the  worse.  The  love  of  a  proper  good  is  therefore 
apt  to  perfect  and  better  the  lover,  while  the  love  of  a  good 
that  is  not  proper  to  the  lover  is  apt  to  waste  away  the  lover 
and  alter  him  for  the  worse.  Hence  a  man  is  perfected  and  im- 
proved most  of  all  by  the  love  of  God;  and  wasted  and  altered 
for  the  worse  by  the  love  of  sin,  according  to  the  text:  (<  They 
became  abominable  as  those  things  were  which  they  loved. w 
This  is  said  of  love  in  respect  of  its  formal  element,  which  is  on 
the  part  of  the  appetite.  But  in  respect  of  the  material  element, 
which  is  some  bodily  alteration,  we  do  find  that  love  wastes  and 
wears  a  man  away  on  account  of  the  excess  of  the  alteration:  as 


SAINT   THOMAS  AQUINAS  175 

happens  in  every  act  of  a  spiritual  faculty  which  is  exercised  by 
alteration  of  a  bodily  organ. 

Every  agent  acts  for  some  end.  But  the  end  is  the  good  de- 
sired and  loved  by  each.  Hence  it  is  manifest  that  every  agent, 
whatever  it  be,  does  its  every  action  from  some  love. 

The  objection  that  love  is  a  passion,  and  that  not  all  things 
which  a  man  does  are  done  from  passion,  is  valid,  touching  that 
love  which  is  a  passion  existing  in  the  sensitive  appetite;  but  we 
are  speaking  now  of  love  in  the  general  sense  of  the  term,  in- 
cluding   under    itself    intellectual,    rational,    animal,    and    physical 

love. 

Question  XXVIII  of  the  «  Ethics, »  complete. 


OF    HATRED 

Love  is  a  certain  attuning  of  the  appetite  to  that  which  is  ap- 
prehended as  suitable,  while  hatred  is  a  sort  of  dissonance 
of  the  appetite  from  that  which  is  apprehended  as  unsuitable 
and  hurtful.  But  as  everything  suitable,  as  such,  bears  the  stamp 
of  good,  so  everything  unsuitable,  as  such,  bears  the  stamp  of 
evil;  and  therefore  as  good  is  the  object  of  love,  so  evil  is  the 
object  of  hatred. 

Being,  as  being,  has  nothing  in  it  of  variance,  but  only  of 
concord,  because  all  things  agree  in  being:  but  being,  inasmuch 
as  it  is  this  determinate  being,  is  at  variance  with  some  other 
determinate  being;  and  in  this  way  one  being  is  hateful  to  an- 
other, and  is  evil,  not  in  itself,  but  in  relation  to  another. 

As  things  are  apprehended  as  good,  which  are  not  really 
good,  so  things  are  apprehended  as  evil  which  are  not  really  evil; 
hence  it  happens  sometimes  that  neither  hatred  of  evil  nor  love 
of  good  is  good. 

In  every  case  we  should  consider  what  agrees  with  a  thing 
before  we  consider  what  disagrees  with  it;  for  to  disagree  with 
a  thing  is  to  mar  or  hinder  what  agrees  with  it.  Hence  love 
must  be  prior  to  hatred;  and  nothing  can  be  hated  except  what 
is  contrary  to  some  agreeable  thing  that  is  loved.  And  thus  all 
hatred  is  caused  by  love. 

Love  and  hatred  are  contraries  when  they  both  turn  on  the 
same  object;  but  when  they  are  about  contrary  objects,  they  are 
not   contraries,   but   consequences  one  of   the   other:    for  it   is    on 


176  SAINT   THOMAS  AQUINAS 

one  and  the  same  ground  that  a  thing  is  loved  and  its  contrary- 
hated;  and  thus  the  love  of  one  thing  is  the  cause  of  its  con- 
trary being  hated. 

Is  it  possible  for  any  one  to  hate  himself  ? 

Properly  speaking,  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  hate  himself. 
For  naturally  everything  seeks  good,  and  cannot  seek  for  itself 
anything  except  in  the  light  of  good.  But  to  love  any  one  is  to 
wish  him  good.  Hence  a  man  needs  must  love  himself,  and  can- 
not possibly  hate  himself,  properly  speaking.  Accidentally,  how- 
ever, it  comes  about  that  a  man  hates  himself,  and  this  in  two 
ways:  in  one  way  in  regard  of  the  good  which  he  wishes  for 
himself,  for  it  happens  sometimes  that  what  is  sought  as  being 
in  a  certain  respect  good  is  simply  evil;  and  in  this  way  one  acci- 
dentally wishes  evil  to  himself,  which  is  to  hate.  The  same  may 
happen  in  another  way  in  regard  of  the  being  to  whom  he  wishes 
good,  namely,  himself.  Every  being  is  that  especially  which  is 
the  leading  element  in  its  composition:  hence  the  State  is  said  to 
do  what  the  King  does,  as  though  the  King  were  the  whole 
State.  It  is  clear  then  that  man  is  especially  the  mind  of  man. 
But  it  happens  that  some  men  take  themselves  to  be  that  espe- 
cially which  they  are  in  their  bodily  and  sensitive  nature.  Hence 
they  love  themselves  according  to  that  which  they  take  them- 
selves to  be,  but  hate  that  which  they  really  are,  in  that  they 
will  things  contrary  to  reason.  And  in  both  of  these  ways  (<he 
that  loveth  iniquity,  hateth n  not  only  <(his  own  soul,*  but  also 
himself. 

From  the  «  Ethics. » 


WHAT   IS    HAPPINESS? 

Is  happiness  something  uncreated  ?  The  word  end  has  two  mean- 
ings. In  one  meaning  it  stands  for  the  thing  itself  which  we 
desire  to  gain :  thus  the  miser's  end  is  money.  In  another 
meaning  it  stands  for  the  near  attainment,  or  possession,  or  use, 
or  enjoyment  of  the  thing  desired,  as  if  one  should  say  that  the 
possession  of  money  is  the  miser's  end,  or  the  enjoyment  of  some- 
thing pleasant  the  end  of  the  sensualist.  In  the  first  meaning  of 
the  word,  therefore,  the  end  of  man  is  the  Uncreated  Good,  namely 
God,  who  alone  of  his  infinite  goodness  can  perfectly  satisfy  the 
will  of  man.  But  according  to  the  second  meaning,  the  last  end 
of  man  is  something  created,  existing  in  himself,  which  is  nothing 


SAINT    THOMAS    AQUINAS  1 77 

else  than  the  attainment  or  enjoyment  of  the  last  end.  Now  the 
last  end  is  called  happiness.  If  therefore  the  happiness  of  man  is 
considered  in  its  cause  or  object,  in  that  way  it  is  something  un- 
created; but  if  it  is  considered  in  essence,  in  that  way  happiness 
is  a  created  thing. 

Happiness  is  said  to  be  the  sovereign  good  of  man,  because 
it  is  the  attainment  or  enjoyment  of  the  sovereign  good. 

So  far  as  the  happiness  of  man  is  something  created,  existing 
in  the  man  himself,  we  must  say  that  the  happiness  of  man  is 
an  act.  For  happiness  is  the  last  perfection  of  man.  But  every- 
thing is  perfect  so  far  as  it  is  in  act;  for  potentiality  without 
actuality  is  imperfect.  Happiness  therefore  must  consist  in  the 
last  and  crowning  act  of  man.  But  it  is  manifest  that  activity  is 
the  last  and  crowning  act  of  an  active  being;  whence  also  it  is 
called  by  the  philosopher  (<  the  second  act.0  And  hence  it  is  that 
each  thing  is  said  to  be  for  the  sake  of  its  activity.  It  needs 
must  be  therefore  that  the  happiness  of  man  is  a  certain  ac- 
tivity. 

Life  has  two  meanings.  One  way  it  means  the  very  being  of 
the  living,  and  in  that  way  happiness  is  not  life;  for  of  God 
alone  can  it  be  said  that  his  own  being  is  his  happiness.  In  an- 
other way  life  is  taken  to  mean  the  activity  on  the  part  of  the 
living  thing  by  which  activity  the  principle  of  life  is  reduced  to 
act.  Thus  we  speak  of  an  active  or  contemplative  life,  or  of  a 
life  of  pleasure;  and  in  this  way  the  last  end  is  called  life  ever- 
lasting, as  is  clear  from  the  text :  <(  This  is  life  everlasting,  that 
they  know  thee,  the  only  true  God. w 

By  the  definition  of  Boetius,  that  happiness  is  <(a  state  made 
perfect  by  the  aggregate  sum  of  all  things  good,"  nothing  else  is 
meant  than  that  the  happy  man  is  in  a  state  of  perfect  good. 
But  Aristotle  has  expressed  the  proper  essence  of  happiness, 
showing  by  what  it  is  that  man  is  constituted  in  such  a  state, 
namely,  by  a  certain  activity. 

Action  is  twofold.  There  is  one  variety  that  proceeds  from 
the  agent  to  exterior  matter,  as  the  action  of  cutting  and  burn- 
ing, and  such  an  activity  cannot  be  happiness,  for  such  activity 
is  not  an  act  and  perfection  of  the  agent,  but  rather  of  the  pa- 
tient. There  is  another  action  immanent,  or  remaining  in  the 
agent  himself,  as  feeling,  understanding,  and  willing.  Such  action 
is  a  perfection  and  act  of  the  agent,  and  an  activity  of  this  sort 
may  possibly  be  happiness. 

I — 12 


178  SAINT   THOMAS   AQUINAS 

Since  happiness  means  some  manner  of  final  perfection,  hap- 
piness must  have  different  meanings  according  to  the  different 
grades  of  perfection  that  there  are  attainable  by  different  beings 
capable  of  happiness.  In  God  is  happiness  by  essence,  because 
his  very  being  is  his  activity,  because  he  does  not  enjoy  any 
other  thing  than  himself.  In  the  angels  final  perfection  is  by 
way  of  a  certain  activity,  whereby  they  are  united  to  the  uncre- 
ated good;  and  this  activity  is  in  them  one  and  everlasting.  In 
men,  in  the  state  of  the  present  life,  final  perfection  is  by  way 
of  an  activity  whereby  they  are  united  to  God.  But  this  activity 
cannot  be  everlasting  or  continuous,  and  by  consequence  it  is  not 
one,  because  an  act  is  multiplied  by  interruption;  and,  therefore, 
in  this  state  of  the  present  life,  perfect  happiness  is  not  to  be 
had  by  man.  Hence  the  philosopher,  placing  the  happiness  of 
man  in  this  life,  says  that  it  is  imperfect,  and  after  much  discus- 
sion he  comes  to  this  conclusion :  (<  We  call  them  happy,  so  far 
as  happiness  can  be  predicated  of  men."  But  we  have  a  promise 
from  God  of  perfect  happiness,  when  we  shall  be  <(  like  the 
angels  in  Heaven. w  As  regards  this  perfect  happiness,  the  objec- 
tion drops,  because  in  this  state  of  happiness  the  mind  of  man  is 
united  to  God  by  one  continuous  and  everlasting  activity.  But 
in  the  present  life,  so  far  as  we  fall  short  of  the  unity  and  con- 
tinuity of  such  an  activity,  so  much  do  we  lose  of  the  perfection 
of  happiness.  There  is,  however,  granted  us  a  certain  participa- 
tion in  happiness,  and  the  more  continuous  and  undivided  the 
activity  can  be  the  more  will  it  come  up  to  the  idea  of  happi- 
ness. And  therefore  in  the  active  life,  which  is  busied  with 
many  things,  there  is  less  of  the  essence  of  happiness  than  in 
the  contemplative  life,  which  is  busy  with  the  one  occupation  of 
the  contemplation  of  truth. 

From  the  third  question  of  the  «  Ethics. » 


179 


FRANCOIS  JEAN    DOMINIQUE   ARAGO 

(1786-1853) 

jrago,  one  of  the  founders  of  nineteenth-century  science,  was 
born  near  Perpignan,  France,  February  26th,  1786.  His  dis- 
coveries in  magnetism  and  optics  combined  with  his  work 
as  an  astronomer  to  make  him  one  of  the  most  famous  men  of  his 
day,  and  he  increased  his  celebrity  by  his  uncompromising  repub- 
licanism. As  a  member  of  the  French  Chamber  of  Deputies  in  1830, 
he  was  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  most  advanced  section  of  the  Re- 
publican party.  In  1848,  after  the  fall  of  Louis  Philippe,  he  became 
Minister  of  War  and  Marine,  using  his  influence  in  the  ministry  to 
secure  the  abolition  of  slavery  in  the  French  colonies  and  of  flogging 
in  the  army  and  navy.  After  the  coup  d'ttat  he  refused  allegiance  to 
Louis  Napoleon,  and  offered  his  resignation  from  a  scientific  board  of 
which  he  was  a  member.  With  a  good  taste  he  could  show  on  occa- 
sion, Louis  refused  to  accept  it,  and  when  Arago  died,  October  2d, 
1853,  decreed  him  a  funeral  with  the  highest  possible  honors.  Be- 
sides his  numerous  scientific  works,  Arago  wrote  a  volume  of  studies 
of  the  lives  of  scientific  men,  which  has  become  a  part  of  popular 
literature  in  English  as  well  as  in  French. 


THE    CENTRAL   FIRES    OF   THE    EARTH 

In  all  places  of  the  earth,  as  soon  as  we  descend  to  a  certain 
depth,  the  thermometer  no  longer   experiences  either  diurnal 

or  annual  variation.  It  marks  the  same  degree,  and  the  same 
fraction  of  a  degree,  from  day  to  day,  and  from  year  to  year. 
Such  is  the  fact :  what  says  theory  ? 

Let  us  suppose,  for  a  moment,  that  the  earth  has  constantly 
received  all  its  heat  from  the  sun.  Descend  into  its  mass  to  a 
sufficient  depth,  and  you  will  find,  with  Fourier,  by  the  aid  of 
calculation,  a  constant  temperature  for  each  day  of  the  year.  You 
will  recognize  further,  that  this  solar  temperature  of  the  inferior 
strata  varies  from  one  climate  to  another;  that  in  each  country, 
finally,  it  ought  to  be  always  the  same,  so  long  as  we  do  not  de- 
scend to  depths  which  are  too  great  relatively  to  the  earth's  radius. 


I  So  FRANQOIS   JEAN    DOMINIQUE   ARAGO 

Well,  the  phenomena  of  nature  stand  in  manifest  contradiction 
to  this  result.  The  observations  made  in  a  multitude  of  mines, 
observations  of  the  temperature  of  hot  springs  coming  from  dif- 
ferent depths,  have  all  given  an  increase  of  one  degree  of  the 
centigrade  for  every  twenty  or  thirty  metres  of  depth.  Thus, 
there  was  some  inaccuracy  in  the  hypothesis  which  we  were  dis- 
cussing upon  the  footsteps  of  our  colleague.  It  is  not  true  that 
the  temperature  of  the  terrestrial  strata  may  be  attributed  solely 
to  the  action  of  the  solar  rays. 

This  being  established,  the  increase  of  heat  which  is  observed 
in  all  climates  when  we  penetrate  into  the  interior  of  the  globe 
is  the  manifest  indication  of  an  intrinsic  heat.  The  earth,  as 
Descartes  and  Leibnitz  maintained  it  to  be,  but  without  being 
able  to  support  their  assertions  by  any  demonstrative  reasoning, 
—  thanks  to  a  combination  of  the  observations  of  physical  inquir- 
ers with  the  analytical  calculations  of  Fourier, —  is  an  incrusted 
sun,  the  high  temperature  of  which  may  be  boldly  invoked  every 
time  that  the  explanation  of  ancient  geological  phenomena  will 
require  it. 

After  having  established  that  there  is  in  our  earth  an  inher- 
ent heat, —  a  heat  the  source  of  which  is  not  the  sun,  and  which, 
if  we  may  judge  of  it  by  the  rapid  increase  which  observation 
indicates,  ought  to  be  already  sufficiently  intense  at  the  depth  of 
only  seven  or  eight  leagues  to  hold  in  fusion  all  known  sub- 
stances,—  there  arises  the  question,  What  is  its  precise  value  at 
the  surface  of  the  earth;  what  weight  are  we  to  attach  to  it  in 
the  determination  of  terrestrial  temperatures;  what  part  does  it 
play  in  the  phenomena  of  life  ? 

According  to  Mairan,  Buffon,  and  Bailly,  this  part  is  immense. 
For  France,  they  estimate  the  heat  which  escapes  from  the  in- 
terior of  the  earth,  at  twenty-nine  times  in  summer,  and  four 
hundred  times  in  winter,  the  heat  which  comes  to  us  from  the 
sun.  Thus,  contrary  to  general  opinion,  the  heat  of  the  body 
which  illuminates  us  would  form  only  a  very  small  part  of  that 
whose  propitious  influence  we  feel. 

This  idea  was  developed  with  ability  and  great  eloquence  in 
the  <(  Memoirs  of  the  Academy, "  in  (<  Les  Epoques  de  la  Nature  * 
of  Buffon,  in  the  letters  from  Bailly  to  Voltaire  upon  the 
w  Origin  of  the  Sciences  8  and  upon  the  (<  Atlantide. w  But  the  in- 
genious romance  to  which  it  has  served  as  a  base  has  vanished 
like  a  shadow  before  the  torch  of  mathematical  science. 


FRANQOIS  JEAN   DOMINIQUE   ARAGO  181 

Fourier,  having  discovered  that  the  excess  of  the  aggregate 
temperature  of  the  earth's  surface  above  that  which  would  result 
from  the  sole  action  of  the  solar  rays  has  a  determinate  relation 
to  the  increase  of  temperature  at  different  depths,  succeeded  in 
deducing  from  the  experimental  value  of  this  increase  a  numer- 
ical determination  of  the  excess  in  question.  This  excess  is  the 
thermometric  effect  which  the  solar  heat  produces  at  the  surface; 
now,  instead  of  the  large  numbers  adopted  by  Mairan,  Bailly, 
and  Buffon,  what  has  our  colleague  found  ?  A  thirtieth  of  a  de- 
gree, not  more. 

The  surface  of  the  earth,  which  originally  was  perhaps  incan- 
descent, has  cooled  then,  in  the  course  of  ages,  so  as  hardly  to 
preserve  any  sensible  trace  of  its  primitive  heat.  However,  at 
great  depths,  the  original  heat  is  still  enormous.  Time  will  alter 
sensibly  the  internal  temperature;  but  at  the  surface  (and  the 
phenomena  of  the  surface  can  alone  modify  or  compromise  the 
existence  of  living  beings),  all  the  changes  are  almost  accom- 
plished. The  frightful  freezing  of  the  earth,  the  epoch  of  which 
Buffon  fixed  at  the  instant  when  the  central  heat  would  be  totally 
dissipated,  is  then  a  pure  dream.  At  the  surface  the  earth  is  no 
longer  impregnated  except  by  the  solar  heat.  So  long  as  the  sun 
shall  continue  to  preserve  the  same  brightness,  mankind  will  find, 
from  pole  to  pole,  under  each  latitude,  the  climates  which  have 
permitted  them  to  live  and  to  establish  their  residence.  These 
are  great  results.  While  recording  them  in  the  annals  of  science, 
historians  will  not  neglect  to  draw  attention  to  this  singular  pe- 
culiarity: that  the  geometer,  to  whom  we  owe  the  first  certain 
demonstration  of  the  existence  of  a  heat  independent  of  a  solar 
influence  in  the  interior  of  the  earth,  has  annihilated  the  immense 
part  which  this  primitive  heat  was  made  to  play  in  the  explana- 
tion of  the  phenomena  of   terrestrial    temperature. 

Besides  divesting  the  theory  of  climates  of  an  error  which 
occupied  a  prominent  place  in  science,  supported  as  it  was  by 
the  imposing  authority  of  Mairan,  of  Bailly,  and  of  Buffon,  Fourier 
is  entitled  to  the  merit  of  a  still  more  striking  achievement:  he 
has  introduced  into  this  theory  a  consideration  which  hitherto 
had  been  totally  neglected;  he  has  pointed  out  the  influence  ex- 
ercised by  the  temperature  of  the  celestial  regions,  amid  which 
the  hearth  describes  its  immense  orbit  around   the  sun. 

When  we  perceive,  even  under  the  equator,  certain  moun- 
tains covered  with  eternal  snow,  upon  observing  the  rapid  dimi- 


182  FRANCOIS   JEAN    DOMINIQUE    ARAGO 

nution  of  temperature  which  the  strata  of  the  atmosphere  undergo 
during  ascents  in  balloons,  meteorologists  have  supposed  that  in 
the  regions  wherein  the  extreme  rarity  of  the  air  will  always  ex- 
clude the  presence  of  mankind,  and  that  especially  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  atmosphere,  there  ought  to  prevail  a  prodigious  in- 
tensity of  cold.  It  was  not  merely  by  hundreds,  it  was  by  thou- 
sands of  degrees,  that  they  had  arbitrarily  measured  it.  But,  as 
usual,  the  imagination  (cette  folie  de  la  maison)  had  exceeded  all 
reasonable  limits.  The  hundreds,  the  tens  of  thousands  of  de- 
grees, have  dwindled  down,  after  the  rigorous  researches  of 
Fourier,  to  fifty  or  sixty  degrees  only.  Fifty  or  sixty  degrees 
beneath  zero,  such  is  the  temperature  which  the  radiation  of 
heat  from  the  stars  has  established  in  the  regions  furrowed  in- 
definitely by  the  planets  of  our  system. 

You  recollect,  gentlemen,  with  what  delight  Fourier  used  to 
converse  on  this  subject.  You  know  well  that  he  thought  him- 
self sure  of  having  assigned  the  temperature  of  space  within 
eight  or  ten  degrees.  By  what  fatality  has  it  happened  that  the 
memoir,  wherein  no  doubt  our  colleague  had  recorded  all  the  ele- 
ments of  that  important  determination,  is  not  to  be  found  ?  May 
that  irreparable  loss  prove  at  least  to  so  many  observers,  that  in- 
stead of  pursuing  obstinately  an  ideal  perfection,  which  it  is  not 
allotted  to  man  to  attain,  they  will  act  wisely  in  taking  the 
public,  as  soon  as  possible,  into  the  confidence  of  their  labors. 

From  the  essay  on  <(  Fourier, w  read  before 
the  French  Academy  of  Sciences. 


i83 


THE   DUKE   OF   ARGYLE 

(1823-1900) 

[eorge  Douglas  Campbell,  eighth  Duke  of  Argyle,  whose 
«  Reign  of  Law"  and  kindred  essays  published  during  the 
last  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  gave  him  international 
celebrity,  was  born  in  Dumbartonshire,  Scotland,  April  30th,  1823. 
Both  in  politics  and  literature  he  represented  the  best  tradition  of 
English  aristocratic  liberalism.  At  various  times  during  his  public 
career  he  was  Lord  Privy  Seal,  Postmaster-General,  and  Secretary  for 
India.  Among  his  works  are  ((  The  Reign  of  Law  B  ;  <(  Primeval  War  ° ; 
«The  Unity  of  Nature0;  «  Geology  and  the  Deluge,0  and  « The  Un- 
seen Foundations  of  Society.0     He  died  April  23d  1900. 


THE   UNITY   OF   NATURE 

It  is  a  part  of  the  unity  of  nature  that  the  clear  perception  of 
any  one  truth  leads  almost  always  to  the  perception  of  some 
other,  which  follows  from  or  is  connected  with  the  first.  The 
same  analysis  which  establishes  a  necessary  connection  between 
the  self-consciousness  of  man  and  the  one  fundamental  element 
of  all  religious  emotion  and  belief  establishes  an  equally  natural 
connection  between  another  part  of  the  same  self-consciousness 
and  certain  tendencies  in  the  development  of  religion  which  we 
know  to  have  been  widely  prevalent.  For  although  in  the  opera- 
tions of  our  own  mind  and  spirit,  with  their  strong  and  often 
violent  emotions,  we  are  familiar  with  a  powerful  agency  which 
is  in  itself  invisible,  yet  it  is  equally  true  that  we  are  familiar 
with  that  agency  as  always  working  in  and  through  a  body.  It 
is  natural,  therefore,  when  we  think  of  living  agencies  in  nature 
other  than  our  own,  to  think  of  them  as  having  some  form,  or  at 
least  as  having  some  abode.  Seeing,  however,  and  knowing  the 
work  of  those  agencies  to  be  work  exhibiting  power  and  resources 
so  much  greater  than  our  own,  there  is  obviously  unlimited  scope 
for  the  imagination  in  conceiving  what  that  form  and  where  that 


184  THE   DUKE    OF   ARGYLE 

abode  may  be.  Given,  therefore,  these  two  inevitable  tendencies 
of  the  human  mind  —  the  tendency  to  believe  in  the  existence  of 
personalities  other  than  our  own,  and  the  tendency  to  think  of 
them  as  living  in  some  shape  and  in  some  place  —  we  have  a  nat- 
ural and  sufficient  explanation,  not  only  of  the  existence  of  reli- 
gion, but  of  the  thousand  forms  in  which  it  has  found  expression 
in  the  world.  For  as  man  since  he  became  man,  in  respect  to  the 
existing  powers  and  apparatus  of  his  mind,  has  never  been  with- 
out the  consciousness  of  self,  nor  without  some  desire  of  inter- 
preting the  things  around  him  in  terms  of  his  own  thoughts,  so 
neither  has  he  been  without  the  power  of  imagination.  By  vir- 
tue of  it  he  recombines  into  countless  new  forms  not  only  the 
images  of  sense,  but  his  own  instinctive  interpretations  of  them. 
Obviously  we  have  in  this  faculty  the  prolific  source  of  an  infi- 
nite variety  of  conceptions,  which  may  be  pure  and  simple  or 
foul  and  unnatural,  according  to  the  elements  supplied  out  of 
the  moral  and  intellectual  character  of  the  minds  which  are  im- 
agining. Obviously,  too,  we  have  in  this  process  an  unlimited 
field  for  the  development  of  good  or  of  evil  germs.  The  work 
which  in  the  last  chapter  I  have  shown  to  be  the  inevitable 
work  of  reason  when  it  starts  from  any  datum  which  is  false, 
must  be,  in  religious  conceptions  above  all  others,  a  work  of 
rapid  and  continuous  evolution.  The  steps  of  natural  conse- 
quence, when  they  are  downward  here,  must  be  downward  along 
the  steepest  gradients.  It  must  be  so  because  the  conceptions 
which  men  have  formed  respecting  the  supreme  agencies  in  nat- 
ure are  of  necessity  conceptions  which  give  energy  to  all  the 
springs  of  action.  They  touch  the  deepest  roots  of  motive.  In 
thought  they  open  the  most  copious  fountains  of  suggestion. 
In  conduct  they  affect  the  supreme  influence  of  authority,  and 
the  next  most  powerful  of  all  influences,  the  influence  of  exam- 
ple. Whatever  may  have  been  false  or  wrong,  therefore,  from 
the  first,  in  any  religious  conception,  must  inevitably  tend  to  be- 
come worse  and  worse  with  time,  and  with  the  temptation  under 
which  men  have  lain  to  follow  up  the  steps  of  evil  consequence 
to  their  most  extreme  conclusions. 

Armed  with  the  certainties  which  thus  arise  out  of  the  very 
nature  of  the  conceptions  we  are  dealing  with  when  we  inquire 
into  the  origin  of  religion,  we  can  now  approach  that  question 
by  consulting  the  only  other  sources  of  authentic  information, 
which    are,    first,    the    facts    which    religion    presents    among    the 


THE    DUKE    OP   ARGYLE  185 

existing-  generations  of  men,  and,  secondly,  such  facts  as  can  be 
safely  gathered  from  the  records  of  the  past. 

On  one  main  point  which  has  been  questioned  respecting  ex- 
isting facts,  the  progress  of  inquiry  seems  to  have  established 
beyond  any  reasonable  doubt  that  no  race  of  men  now  exists  so 
savage  and  degraded  as  to  be,  or  to  have  been  when  discovered, 
wholly  destitute  of  any  conceptions  of  a  religious  nature.  It  is 
now  well  understood  that  all  the  cases  in  which  the  existence  of 
such  savages  has  been  reported  are  cases  which  break  down 
upon  more  intimate  knowledge  and  more  scientific  inquiry. 

Such  is  the  conclusion  arrived  at  by  a  careful  modern  inquirer, 
Professor  Tiele,  who  says :  <(  The  statement  that  there  are  nations 
or  tribes  which  possess  no  religion,  rests  either  on  inaccurate  ob- 
servations or  on  a  confusion  of  ideas.  No  tribe  or  nation  has 
yet  been  met  with  destitute  of  belief  in  any  higher  beings,  and 
travelers  who  asserted  their  existence  have  been  afterward  re- 
futed by  facts.  It  is  legitimate,  therefore,  to  call  religion,  in  its 
most  general  sense,  a  universal  phenomenon  of  humanity. B 

Although  this  conclusion  on  a  matter  of  fact  is  satisfactory,  it 
must  be  remembered  that,  even  if  it  had  been  true  that  some 
savages  do  exist  with  no  conception  whatever  of  living  beings 
higher  than  themselves,  it  would  be  no  proof  whatever  that  such 
was  the  primeval  condition  of  man.  The  arguments  adduced  in 
a  former  chapter,  that  the  most  degraded  savagery  of  the  pres- 
ent day  is  or  may  be  the  result  of  evolution  working  upon 
highly  unfavorable  conditions,  are  arguments  which  deprive  such 
facts,  even  if  they  existed,  of  all  value  in  support  of  the  assump- 
tion that  the  lowest  savagery  was  the  condition  of  the  first  pro- 
genitors of  our  race.  Degradation  being  a  process  which  has 
certainly  operated,  and  is  now  operating,  upon  some  races,  and 
to  some  extent,  it  must  always  remain  a  question  how  far  this 
process  may  go  in  paralyzing  the  activity  of  our  higher  powers 
or  in  setting  them,  as  it  were,  to  sleep.  It  is  well,  however, 
that  we  have  no  such  problem  to  discuss.  Whether  any  savages 
exist  with  absolutely  no  religious  conceptions  is,  after  all,  a  ques- 
tion of  subordinate  importance;  because  it  is  certain  that,  if  they 
exist  at  all,  they  are  a  very  extreme  case  and  a  very  rare  excep- 
tion. It  is  notorious  that,  in  the  case  of  most  savages  and  of  all 
barbarians,  not  only  have  they  some  religion,  but  their  religion  is 
one  of  the  very  worst  elements  in  their  savagery  or  their  bar- 
barism. 


1 86  THE    DUKE    OF   ARGYLE 

Looking  now  to  the  facts  presented  by  the  existing  religions 
of  the  world,  there  is  one  of  these  facts  which  at  once  arrests 
attention,  and  that  is  the  tendency  of  all  religions,  whether  sav- 
age or  civilized,  to  connect  the  personal  agencies  who  are  feared 
or  worshiped  with  some  material  object.  The  nature  of  that 
connection  may  not  be  always  —  it  may  not  be  even  in  any  case 
—  perfectly  clear  and  definite.  The  rigorous  analysis  of  our  own 
thoughts  upon  such  subjects  is  difficult,  even  to  the  most  enlight- 
ened men.  To  rude  and  savage  men  it  is  impossible.  There  is 
no  mystery,  therefore,  in  the  fact  that  the  connection  which  exists 
between  various  material  objects  and  the  beings  who  are  wor- 
shiped in  them  or  through  them  is  a  connection  which  remains 
generally  vague  in  the  mind  of  the  worshiper  himself.  Some- 
times the  material  object  is  an  embodiment;  sometimes  it  is  a 
symbol;  often  it  may  be  only  an  abode.  Nor  is  it  wonderful 
that  there  should  be  a  like  variety  in  the  particular  objects  which 
have  come  to  be  so  regarded.  Sometimes  they  are  such  material 
objects  as  the  heavenly  bodies.  Sometimes  they  are  natural  pro- 
ductions of  our  own  planet,  such  as  particular  trees,  or  particular 
animals,  or  particular  things  in  themselves  inanimate,  such  as 
springs,  or  streams,  or  mountains.  Sometimes  they  are  manu- 
factured articles,  stones,  or  blocks  of  wood  cut  into  some  shape 
which  has  a  meaning  either  obvious  or  traditional. 

The  universality  of  this  tendency  to  connect  some  material 
objects  with  religious  worship,  and  the  immense  variety  of  modes 
in  which  this  tendencv  has  been  manifested,  is  a  fact  which  re- 
ceives  a  full  and  adequate  explanation  in  our  natural  disposition 
to  conceive  of  all  personal  agencies  as  living  in  some  form  and 
in  some  place,  or  as  having  some  other  special  connection  with 
particular  things  in  nature.  Nor  is  it  difficult  to  understand  how 
the  embodiments,  or  the  symbols,  or  the  abodes,  which  may  be 
imagined  and  devised  by  men,  will  vary  according  as  their  men- 
tal condition  has  been  developed  in  a  good  or  in  a  wrong  direc- 
tion. And  as  these  imaginings  and  devices  are  never,  as  we  see 
them  now  among  savages,  the  work  of  any  one  generation  of 
men,  but  are  the  accumulated  inheritance  of  many  generations, 
all  existing  systems  of  worship  among  them  must  be  regarded 
as  presumably  very  wide  departures  from  the  conceptions  which 
were  primeval.  And  this  presumption  gains  additional  force 
when  we  observe  the  distinction  which  exists  between  the  funda- 
mental conceptions  of   religious   belief   and   the   forms  of   worship 


THE   DUKE   OF  ARGYLE  187 

which  have  come  to  be  the  expression  and  embodiment  of  these. 
In  the  religion  of  the  highest  and  best  races,  in  Christianity  it- 
self, we  know  the  wide  difference  which  obtains  between  the 
theology  of  the  church  and  the  popular  superstitions  which  have 
been  developed  under  it.  These  superstitions  may  be,  and  often 
are,  of  the  grossest  kind.  They  may  be,  indeed,  and  in  many 
cases  are  known  to  be,  vestiges  of  pagan  worship  which  have 
survived  all  religious  revolutions  and  reforms;  but  in  other  cases 
they  are  the  natural  and  legitimate  development  of  some  erroneous 
belief  accepted  as  part  of  the  Christian  creed.  Here,  as  else- 
where, reason  working  on  false  data  has  been,  as  under  such 
conditions  it  must  always  be,  the  great  agent  in  degradation  and 

decay. 

From  essays  on  «  Nature  and  Religion. » 


i88 


ARISTOTLE 

(384-322  B.  C.) 

Jf  a  vote  of  the  learned  of  the  last  five  centuries  could  be 
taken  to  decide  what  essay  has  had  the  greatest  effect  on 
literature,  it  is  probable  that  at  least  nine  voices  in  every 
ten  would  be  for  the  (( Poetics  »  of  Aristotle,  a  treatise,  which,  though 
written  more  than  two  thousand  years  ago,  is  still  accepted  as  the 
best  expression  of  the  principles  of  literary  art  ever  put  into  words. 
w  The  ( Poetics }  of  Aristotle, w  writes  Professor  Morley  in  his  preface 
to  the  translation  here  given  complete,  (<  is  a  book  which  has  been 
honored  by  all  critics,  idolized  by  some,  and  has  throughout  Europe 
influenced  the  higher  literary  criticism  since  the  Revival  of  Learning. 
It  is  intellectually  one  of  the  great  books  of  the  world;  substantially 
it  is  so  small  a  book  that  it  can  be  contained  in  one-half  of  this  vol- 
ume, and  still  leave  room  enough  for  the  whole  of  another  book  of 
highest  mark,  Longinus's  (  On  the  Sublime.*  w* 

If  it  were  safe  to  make  comparisons  or  generalizations,  it  would 
be  allowable  in  the  case  of  Aristotle  to  pronounce  his  intellect  the 
greatest  of  the  Greek  world,  and  among  moderns,  surpassed,  if  sur- 
passed at  all,  only  by  that  of  Lord  Bacon.  When  we  remember  that 
this  puts  him  above  Homer  and  Plato  among  the  Greeks  and  above 
the  great  thinkers  and  scientists  of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth 
centuries,  we  may  prefer  not  to  generalize,  but  it  is  impossible  to  go 
far  in  the  study  of  history  without  being  forced  to  recognize  the  ex- 
tent and  strength  of  the  influence  he  exerted  over  the  development 
of  rational  intellect.  His  influence  over  classical  and  post-classical 
thought  was  great;  but  as  the  mind  of  civilization  began  to  quicken 
the  Dark  Ages,  it  became  evident  that  the  progress  of  the  world 
towards  modern  times  was  destined  to  express  his  thought,  to  follow 
his  guidance,  to  borrow  his  methods.  Even  when  the  possibilities  of 
modern  times  and  the  science  of  universal  empiricism  were  condensed 
into  the  <(  Novum  Organum  *  of  Bacon,  it  was  the  thought  of  Aristotle 
which,  by  its  contraries,  inspired  him. 

Born  at  Stagira  in  Macedonia  384  B.  C,  Aristotle  was  for  twenty 
years  a  pupil  in  Plato's  school  at  Athens  where,  during  much  of  the 

*  Longinus's  (<On  the  Sublime »  appears  in  proper  alphabetical  order  in  the 
World's  Best  Essays. 


ARISTOTLE. 


H     EK   TOY     ArAAVUTOS    TOY    API2TOTEAOY2     EIKON    Tl    JE   H   TE 
XNH    TH2     +Y2En2     AIA4EPEI  /" 

AGNOSCE    EFFIG1EM.NATVRAE  MAXIMVS  H1C  EST 
CONDVS  OPVM.ATQVE  IDEM  PROMVS  ARISTOTELES 


ROMAE 
ANNO      •   D     •     CO    •    -B- 


Llll 


ARISTOTLE  189 

period  of  his  own  studies,  it  is  said  that  he  carried  on  a  school  of  his 
own.  Plato  called  him  « the  intellect  of  the  school."  After  Plato's 
death  (347  B.  C),  Aristotle,  then  in  his  thirty-seventh  year,  opened  a 
school  at  the  Court  of  Hermias,  king  of  a  province  in  Mysia,  who 
had  been  his  fellow-student  under  Plato.  In  the  year  342  B.  C,  on 
the  invitation  of  King  Philip,  Aristotle  went  to  Macedonia  and  be- 
came the  tutor  of  Alexander  the  Great.  From  Macedonia  he  returned 
to  Athens  and  opened  there  his  celebrated  school  in  the  Lyceum, 
near  the  temple  of  the  Lycian  Apollo.  He  taught  in  the  Lyceum 
for  thirteen  years;  and  from  his  habit  of  discussing  philosophy  with 
his  pupils  in  its  covered  walk  (peripatos),  his  disciples  came  to  be 
called  Peripatetics.  Of  his  one  hundred  and  forty-six  separate 
treatises,  forty-six  still  remain.  Among  these  the  (<  Poetics B  is  the 
masterpiece  of  its  class,  but  the  <(  Politics, "  the  <(  Rhetoric,"  the  treat- 
ises on  logic  and  on  natural  science,  belong  to  the  literature  without 
which  the  human  mind  could  not  have  utilized  its  powers  as  we  see 
them  manifested  in  the  achievements  of  our  own  civilization. 

"Aristotle's  mind  was  logical,0  writes  Professor  Morley;  <(he  was 
a  master  of  analysis;  and  his  keen  search  into  the  nature  of  man,  of 
society,  and  of  the  world  outside  us,  made  him  the  first  founder  of 
more  sciences  than  one.  He  made,  by  experimental  research,  ad- 
vances in  natural  science  that  were  taken  as  all-sufficient  till  the 
sixteenth  century.  He  stood  between  the  Sophists  and  all  later  time 
as  founder  of  the  study  of  rhetoric.  He  founded  the  scientific  study 
of  politics,  as  well  as  of  ethics;  and  although  he  was  himself  a  man 
of  science  rather  than  a  poet,  his  analytical  power  made  his  treatise 
chiefly  upon  the  character  of  tragic  and  epic  poetry  a  masterpiece  in 
its  own  way." 

Aristotle  died  322  B.  C.  at  Chalcis,  whither  he  had  gone  a  fugitive 
from  the  anger  of  the  Athenians,  who,  after  the  death  of  Alexander 
the  Great,  attacked  Aristotle  as  his  former  teacher.  After  leaving 
Athens  the  great  philosopher  was  condemned  for  (<  impiety,"  but  his 
death  from  a  disease  of  the  stomach  deprived  him  of  the  actual  mar- 
tyrdom to  which  as  the  master  intellect  of  the  age  of  Demosthenes 
and  the  heir  of  the  mind  of  Socrates,  he  was  certainly  not  less  en- 
titled than  they.  W.  V.  B. 


190  ARISTOTLE 

THE   POETICS   OF   ARISTOTLE 
Part  I 

My  design  is  to  treat  of  poetry  in   general,  and  of  its  several 
species;    to    inquire    what    is    the    proper    effect    of   each  — 
what  construction  of  a  fable,  or  plan,  is  essential  to  a  good 
poem — of  what,  and  how  many,  parts  each  species  consists;  with 
whatever  else  belongs  to  the  same  subject:  which  I  shall  consider 
in  the  order  that  most  naturally  presents  itself. 

Epic  poetry,  tragedy,  comedy,  dithyrambics,  as  also,  for  the 
most  part,  the  music  of  the  flute  and  of  the  lyre  —  all  these  are, 
in  the  most  general  view  of  them,  imitations;  differing,  however, 
from  each  other  in  three  respects,  according  to  the  different 
means,  the  different  objects,  or  the  different  manner  of  their  im- 
itation. 

For,  as  men,  some  through  art  and  some  through  habit,  imi- 
tate various  objects  by  means  of  color  and  figure,  and  others, 
again,  by  voice,  so,  with  respect  to  the  arts  above  mentioned, 
rhythm,  words,  and  melody  are  the  different  means  by  which, 
either  single  or  variously  combined,  they  all  produce  their  imita- 
tion. 

For  example,  in  the  imitations  of  the  flute  and  the  lyre,  and 
of  any  other  instruments  capable  of  producing  a  similar  effect, — 
as  the  syrinx  or  pipe, —  melody  and  rhythm  only  are  employed. 
In  those  of  dance,  rhythm  alone,  without  melody;  for  there  are 
dancers  who,  by  rhythm  applied  to  gesture,  express  manners, 
passions,  and  actions. 

The  epopceia  imitates  by  words  alone,  or  by  verse;  and  that 
verse  may  either  be  composed  of  various  metres,  or  confined,  ac- 
cording to  the  practice  hitherto  established,  to  a  single  species. 
For  we  should,  otherwise,  have  no  general  name  which  would 
comprehend  the  mimes  of  Sophron  and  Xenarchus  and  the  So- 
cratic  dialogues;  or  poems  in  iambic,  elegiac,  or  other  metres,  in 
which  the  epic  species  of  imitation  may  be  conveyed.  Custom, 
indeed,  connecting  the  poetry  or  making  with  the  metre,  has  de- 
nominated some  elegiac  poets,  i.  e.,  makers  of  elegiac  verse;  others, 
epic  poets,  i.  e.,  makers  of  hexameter  verse;  thus  distinguishing 
poets,  not  according  to  the  nature  of  their  imitation,  but  accord- 
ing to  that  of  their  metre  only.      For   even   they  who   compose 


ARISTOTLE  191 

treatises  of  medicine  or  natural  philosophy  in  verse  are  denomi- 
nated poets:  yet  Homer  and  Empedocles  have  nothing  in  common, 
except  their  metre;  the  former,  therefore,  justly  merits  the  name 
of  poet,  while  the  other  should  rather  be  called  a  physiologist 
than  a  poet. 

So,  also,  though  any  one  should  choose  to  convey  his  imita- 
tion in  every  kind  of  metre  promiscuously,  as  Chaeremon  has  done 
in  his  "Centaur,"  which  is  a  medley  of  all  sorts  of  verse,  it  would 
not  immediately  follow  that,  on  that  account  merely,  he  was  en- 
titled to  the  name  of  poet.      But  of  this  enough. 

There  are,  again,  other  species  of  poetry  which  make  use  of 
all  the  means  of  imitation, —  rhythm,  melody,  and  verse.  Such 
are  the  dithyrambic,  that  of  nomes,  tragedy,  and  comedy:  with 
this  difference,  however,  that  in  some  of  these  they  are  employed 
all  together,  in  others  separately.  And  such  are  the  differences 
of  these  arts  with  respect  to  the  means  by  which  they  imitate. 

But  as  the  objects  of  imitation  are  the  actions  of  men,  and 
these  men  must  of  necessity  be  either  good  or  bad  (for  on  this 
does  character  principally  depend;  the  manners  being,  in  all  men, 
most  strongly  marked  by  virtue  and  vice),  it  follows  that  we  can 
only  represent  men,  either  as  better  than  they  actually  are,  or 
worse,  or  exactly  as  they  are :  just  as,  in  painting,  the  pictures  of 
Polygnotus  were  above  the  common  level  of  nature;  those  of 
Pauson  below  it;  those  of  Dionysius  faithful  likenesses. 

Now,  it  is  evident  that  each  of  the  imitations  above  mentioned 
will  admit  of  these  differences,  and  become  a  different  kind  of 
imitation  as  it  imitates  objects  that  differ  in  this  respect.  This 
may  be  the  case  with  dancing;  with  the  music  of  the  flute  and 
of  the  lyre;  and  also  with  the  poetry  which  employs  words,  or 
verse  only,  without  melody  or  rhythm :  thus,  Homer  has  drawn 
men  superior  to  what  they  are;  Cleophon  as  they  are;  Hegemon 
the  Thasian,  the  inventor  of  parodies,  and  Nicochares,  the  author 
of  the  (<  Deliad, "  worse  than   they  are. 

So,  again,  with  respect  to  dithyrambics  and  nomes:  in  these, 
too,  the  imitation  may  be  as  different  as  that  of  the  (<  Persians w 
by  Timotheus,  and  the  (<  Cyclops  *  by  Philoxenus. 

Tragedy,  also,  and  comedy  are  distinguished  in  the  same  man- 
ner; the  aim  of  comedy  being  to  exhibit  men  worse  than  we  find 
them,  that  of  tragedy  better. 

There  remains  the  third  difference  —  that  of  the  manner  in 
which    each    of    these    objects   may   be    imitated.     For    the    poet, 


192  ARISTOTLE 

imitating  the  same  object,  and  by  the  same  means,  may  do  it 
either  in  narration  —  and  that,  again,  either  personating  other 
characters,  as  Homer  does,  or,  in  his  own  person  throughout,  with- 
out change; — or  he  may  imitate  by  representing  all  his  charac- 
ters as  real,  and  employed  in  the  very  action  itself. 

These,  then,  are  the  three  differences  by  which,  as  I  said  in 
the  beginning,  all  imitation  is  distinguished:  those  of  the  means, 
the  object,  and  the  manner;  so  that  Sophocles  is,  in  one  respect, 
an  imitator  of  the  same  kind  with  Homer,  as  elevated  characters 
are  the  objects  of  both;  in  another  respect,  of  the  same  kind 
with  Aristophanes,  as  both  imitate  in  the  way  of  action;  whence, 
according  to  some,  the  application  of  the  term  Drama  (i.  e.,  ac- 
tion) to  such  poems.  Upon  this  it  is  that  the  Dorians  ground 
their  claim  to  the  invention  both  of  tragedy  and  comedy.  For 
comedy  is  claimed  by  the  Megarians:  both  by  those  of  Greece, 
who  contend  that  it  took  its  rise  in  their  popular  government,  and 
by  those  of  Sicily,  among  whom  the  poet  Epicharmus  flourished 
long  before  Chionides  and  Magnes;  and  tragedy,  also,  is  claimed 
by  some  of  the  Dorians  of  Peloponnesus.  In  support  of  these 
claims  they  argue  from  the  words  themselves.  They  allege  that 
the  Doric  word  for  a  village  is  come',  the  Attic  demos;  and  that 
comedians  were  so  called,  not  from  comazein, —  to  revel, —  but  from 
their  strolling  about  the  eomai,  or  villages,  before  they  were  tol- 
erated in  the  city.  They  say,  further,  that  to  do,  or  act,  they 
express  by  the  word  dran;   the  Athenians  by  prattein. 

And  thus  much  as  to  the  differences  of  imitation  —  how  many, 
and  what,  they  are. 

Poetry,  in  general,  seems  to  have  derived  its  origin  from  two 
causes,  each  of  them  natural. 

1.  To  imitate  is  instinctive  in  man  from  his  infancy.  By  this 
he  is  distinguished  from  other  animals,  that  he  is  of  all  the  most 
imitative,  and  through  this  instinct  receives  his  earliest  educa- 
tion. All  men  likewise  naturally  receive  pleasure  from  imitation. 
This  is  evident  from  what  we  experience  in  viewing  the  works 
of  imitative  art;  for  in  them  we  contemplate  with  pleasure,  and 
with  the  more  pleasure  the  more  exactly  they  are  imitated,  such 
objects  as,  if  real,  we  could  not  see  without  pain:  as  the  figures 
of  the  meanest  and  most  disgusting  animals,  dead  bodies,  and 
the  like.  And  the  reason  of  this  is  that  to  learn  is  a  natural 
pleasure,  not  confined  to  philosophers,  but  common  to  all  men; 
with   this  difference   only,   that    the  multitude   partake  of   it  in   a 


ARISTOTLE  193 

more  transient  and  compendious  manner.  Hence  the  pleasure 
they  receive  from  a  picture :  in  viewing  it  they  learn,  they  infer, 
they  discover  what  every  object  is;  that  this,  for  instance,  is  such 
a  particular  man,  etc.  For  if  we  suppose  the  object  represented 
to  be  something  which  the  spectator  had  never  seen,  his  pleasure 
in  that  case  will  not  arise  from  the  imitation,  but  from  the  work- 
manship, the  colors,  or  some  such  cause. 

2.  Imitation,  then,  being  thus  natural  to  us,  and,  secondly, 
melody  and  rhythm  being  also  natural  (for  as  to  metre,  it  is 
plainly  a  species  of  rhythm),  those  persons  in  whom  originally 
these  propensities  were  the  strongest  were  naturally  led  to  rude 
and  extemporaneous  attempts,  which,  gradually  improved,  gave 
birth  to  poetry. 

But  this  poetry,  following  the  different  characters  of  its  au- 
thors, naturally  divided  itself  into  two  different  kinds.  They 
who  were  of  a  grave  and  lofty  spirit  chose  for  their  imitation 
the  actions  and  the  adventures  of  elevated  characters;  while 
poets  of  a  lighter  turn  represented  those  of  the  vicious  and  con- 
temptible. And  these  composed  originally  satires,  as  the  former 
did  hymns  and  encomia. 

Of  the  lighter  kind,  we  have  no  poem  earlier  than  the  time  of 
Homer,  though  many  such  in  all  probability  there  were;  but  from 
his  time  we  have,  as  his  <(  Margites, 8  and  others  of  the  same  species, 
in  which  the  iambic  was  introduced  as  the  most  proper  measure; 
and  hence,  indeed,  the  name  of  iambic,  because  it  was  the  meas- 
ure in  which  they  used  to  iambize  (z.  e. ,  to  satirize)  each  other. 

And  thus  these  old  poets  were  divided  into  two  classes: 
those  who  used  the  heroic,  and  those  who  used  the  iambic  verse. 

And  as,  in  the  serious  kind,  Homer  alone  may  be  said  to  de- 
serve the  name  of  poet,  not  only  on  account  of  his  other  excel- 
lences, but  also  of  the  dramatic  spirit  of  his  imitations,  so  was  he 
likewise  the  first  who  suggested  the  idea  of  comedy,  by  substi- 
tuting ridicule  for  invective,  and  giving  that  ridicule  a  dramatic 
cast ;  for  his  <(  Margites *  bears  the  same  analogy  to  comedy  as 
his  « Iliad w  and  ((  Odyssey »  to  tragedy.  But  when  tragedy  and 
comedy  had  once  made  their  appearance,  succeeding  poets,  ac- 
cording to  the  turn  of  their  genius,  attached  themselves  to  the 
one  or  the  other  of  these  new  species:  the  lighter  sort,  instead 
of  iambic,  became  comic  poets;  the  graver,  tragic,  instead  of  he- 
roic; and  that  on  account  of  the  superior  dignity  and  higher 
estimation  of  these  latter  forms  of  poetry. 
1— 13 


I94  ARISTOTLE 

Whether  tragedy  has  now,  with  respect  to  its  constituent  parts, 
received  the  utmost  improvement  of  which  it  is  capable,  consid- 
ered both  in  itself  and  relatively  to  the  theatre,  is  a  question 
that  belongs  not  to  this  place. 

Both  tragedy,  then,  and  comedy,  having  originated  in  a  rude  and 
unpremeditated  manner, —  the  first  from  the  dithyrambic  hymns, 
the  other  from  those  Phallic  songs  which  in  many  cities  remain 
still  in  use, —  each  advanced  gradually  towards  perfection  by  such 
successive  improvements  as  were  most  obvious. 

Tragedy,  after  various  changes,  reposed  at  length  in  the  com- 
pletion of  its  proper  form.  ^Eschylus  first  added  a  second  actor; 
he  also  abridged  the  chorus,  and  made  the  dialogue  the  principal 
part  of  tragedy.  Sophocles  increased  the  number  of  actors  to 
three,  and  added  the  decoration  of  painted  scenery.  It  was  also 
late  before  tragedy  threw  aside  the  short  and  simple  fable  and 
ludicrous  language  of  its  satyric  original,  and  attained  its  proper 
magnitude  and  dignity.  The  iambic  measure  was  then  first 
adopted;  for  originally  the  trochaic  tetrameter  was  made  use  of, 
as  better  suited  to  the  satyric  and  saltatorial  genius  of  the  poem 
at  that  time;  but  when  the  dialogue  was  formed,  nature  itself 
pointed  out  the  proper  metre.  For  the  iambic  is,  of  all  metres, 
the  most  colloquial,  as  appears  evidently  from  this  fact,  that  our 
common  conversation  frequently  falls  into  iambic  verse;  seldom 
into  hexameter,  and  only  when  we  depart  from  the  usual  melody 
of  speech.  Episodes  were  also  multiplied,  and  every  other  part 
of  the  drama  successively  improved  and  polished. 

But  of  this  enough:  to  enter  into  a  minute  detail  would,  per- 
haps, be  a  task  of  some  length. 

Comedy,  as  was  said  before,  is  an  imitation  of  bad  characters, 
bad,  not  with  respect  to  every  sort  of  vice,  but  to  the  ridiculous 
only,  as  being  a  species  of  turpitude  or  deformity,  since  it  may 
be  defined  to  be  a  fault  or  deformity  of  such  a  sort  as  is  neither 
painful  nor  destructive.  A  ridiculous  face,  for  example,  is  some- 
thing ugly  and  distorted,  but  not  so  as  to  cause  pain. 

The  successive  improvements  of  tragedy,  and  the  respective 
authors  of  them,  have  not  escaped  our  knowledge;  but  those  of 
comedy,  from  the  little  attention  that  was  paid  to  it  in  its  origin, 
remain  in  obscurity.  For  it  was  not  till  late  that  comedy  was 
authorized  by  the  magistrate,  and  carried  on  at  the  public  ex- 
pense; it  was  at  first  a  private  and  voluntary  exhibition.  From 
the  time,  indeed,  when  it  began  to  acquire   some  degree  of  form, 


ARISTOTLE  195 

its  poets  have  been  recorded;  but  who  first  introduced  masks,  or 
prologues,  or  augmented  the  number  of  actors  —  these,  and  other 
particulars  of  the  same  kind,  are  unknown. 

Epicharmus  and  Phormis  were  the  first  who  invented  comic 
fables.  This  improvement,  therefore,  is  of  Sicilian  origin.  But, 
of  Athenian  poets,  Crates  was  the  first  who  abandoned  the  iam- 
bic form  of  comedy,  and  made  use  of  invented  and  general 
stories,  or  fables. 

Epic  poetry  agrees  so  far  with  tragic  as  it  is  an  imitation  of 
great  characters  and  actions  by  means  of  words;  but  in  this  it 
differs,  that  it  makes  use  of  only  one  kind  of  metre  throughout, 
and  that  it  is  narrative.  It  also  differs  in  length;  for  tragedy 
endeavors,  as  far  as  possible,  to  confine  its  action  within  the 
limits  of  a  single  revolution  of  the  sun,  or  nearly  so;  but  the 
time  of  epic  action  is  indefinite.  This,  however,  at  first,  was 
equally  the  case  with  tragedy  itself. 

Of  their  constituent  parts,  some  are  common  to  both,  some 
peculiar  to  tragedy.  He,  therefore,  who  is  a  judge  of  the  beau- 
ties and  defects  of  tragedy  is,  of  course,  equally  a  judge  with 
respect  to  those  of  epic  poetry;  for  all  the  parts  of  the  epic 
poem  are  to  be  found  in  tragedy ;  not  all  those  of  tragedy  in  the 
epic  poem. 

Part  II 

OF    TRAGEDY 

Of  the  species  of  poetry  which  imitates  in  hexameters,  and  of 
comedy,  we  shall  speak  hereafter.  Let  us  now  consider  tragedy, 
collecting  first,  from  what  has  been  already  said,  its  true  and 
essential  definition. 

Tragedy,  then,  is  an  imitation  of  some  action  that  is  impor- 
tant, entire,  and  of  a  proper  magnitude  —  by  language,  embellished 
and  rendered  pleasurable,  but  by  different  means  in  different 
parts  —  in  the  way,  not  of  narration,  but  of  action,  effecting 
through  pity  and  terror  the  correction  and  refinement  of  such 
passions. 

By  pleasurable  language  I  mean  a  language  that  has  the  em- 
bellishments of  rhythm,  melody,  and  metre.  And  I  add,  by  dif- 
ferent means  in  different  parts,  because  in  some  parts  metre 
alone  is  employed  —  in  others,  melody. 


196  ARISTOTLE 

Now,  as  tragedy  imitates  by  acting,  the  decoration,  in  the  first 
place,  must  necessarily  be  one  of  its  parts;  then  the  melopceia,  or 
music,  and  the  diction, —  for  these  last  include  the  means  of  tragic 
imitation.  By  diction,  I  mean  the  metrical  composition.  The 
meaning  of  melopccia  is  obvious  to  every  one. 

Again,  tragedy  being  an  imitation  of  an  action,  and  the  per- 
sons employed  in  that  action  being  necessarily  characterized  by 
their  manners  and  their  sentiments  (since  it  is  from  these  that 
actions  themselves  derive  their  character),  it  follows  that  there 
must  also  be  manners  and  sentiments  as  the  two  causes  of  ac- 
tions, and,  consequently,  of  the  happiness  or  unhappiness  of  all 
men.  The  imitation  of  the  action  is  the  fable;  for  by  fable  I 
now  mean  the  contexture  of  incidents,  or  the  plot  By  manners 
I  mean  whatever  marks  the  characters  of  the  persons,  by  senti- 
ments whatever  they  say,  whether  proving  anything  or  delivering 
a  general  sentiment,  etc. 

Hence,  all  tragedy  must  necessarily  contain  six  parts,  which, 
together,  constitute  its  peculiar  character,  or  quality — fable,  man- 
ners, diction,  sentiments,  decoration,  and  music.  Of  these  parts, 
two  relate  to  the  means,  one  to  the  manner,  and  three  to  the  ob- 
ject of  imitation.  And  these  are  all.  These  specific  parts,  if  we 
may  so  call  them,  have  been  employed  by  most  poets,  and  are  all 
to  be  found  in  almost  every  tragedy. 

But  of  all  these  parts  the  most  important  is  the  combination 
of  incidents,  or  the  fable.  Because  tragedy  is  an  imitation,  not 
of  men,  but  of  actions  —  of  life,  of  happiness  and  unhappiness; 
for  happiness  consists  in  action,  and  the  supreme  good  itself  — 
the  very  end  of  life  —  is  action  of  a  certain  kind,  not  quality. 
Now,  the  manners  of  men  constitute  only  their  quality  or  char- 
acters; but  it  is  by  their  actions  that  they  are  happy,  or  the  con- 
trary. Tragedy,  therefore,  does  not  imitate  action  for  the  sake 
of  imitating  manners,  but  in  the  imitation  of  action  that  of  man- 
ners is  of  course  involved;  so  that  the  action  and  the  fable  are 
the  end  of  tragedy;  and  in  everything  the  end  is  of  principal 
importance. 

Again,  tragedy  cannot  subsist  without  action;  without  man- 
ners it  may.  The  tragedies  of  most  modern  poets  have  this  de- 
fect—  a  defect  common,  indeed,  among  poets  in  general.  As 
among  painters  also,  this  is  the  case  with  Zeuxis,  compared  with 
Polygnotus;  the  latter  excels  in  the  expression  of  manners.  There 
is  no  such  expression  in  the  pictures  of  Zeuxis. 


ARISTOTLE  197 

Further,  suppose  any  one  to  string  together  a  number  of 
speeches  in  which  the  manners  are  strongly  marked,  the  language 
and  the  sentiments  well  turned — this  will  not  be  sufficient  to 
produce  the  proper  effect  of  tragedy;  that  end  will  much  rather 
be  answered  by  a  piece  defective  in  each  of  those  particulars,  but 
furnished  with  a  proper  fable  and  contexture  of  incidents.  Just 
as  in  painting,  the  most  brilliant  colors,  spread  at  random  and 
without  design,  will  give  far  less  pleasure  than  the  simplest  out- 
line of  a  figure. 

Add  to  this,  that  those  parts  of  tragedy  by  means  of  which  it 
becomes  most  interesting  and  affecting  are  parts  of  the  fable:  I 
mean  revolutions  and  discoveries. 

As  a  further  proof,  adventurers  in  tragic  writing  are  sooner 
able  to  arrive  at  excellence  in  the  language  and  the  manners  than 
in  the  construction  of  a  plot,  as  appears  from  almost  all  our  ear- 
lier poets. 

The  fable,  then,  is  the  principal  part, —  the  soul,  as  it  were, — 
of  tragedy,  and  the  manners  are  next  in  rank;  tragedy  being  an 
imitation  of  an  action,  and  through  that  principally  of  the  agents. 

In  the  third  place  stand  the  sentiments.  To  this  part  it  be- 
longs to  say  such  things  as  are  true  and  proper,  which  in  the 
dialogue  depend  on  the  political  and  rhetorical  arts;  for  the  an- 
cients made  their  characters  speak  in  the  style  of  political  and 
popular  eloquence,  but  now  the  rhetorical  manner  prevails. 

The  manners  are  whatever  manifests  the  disposition  of  the 
speaker  There  are  speeches,  therefore,  which  are  without  man- 
ners or  character,  as  not  containing  anything  by  which  the  pro- 
pensities or  aversions  of  the  person  who  delivers  them  can  be 
known.  The  sentiments  comprehend  whatever  is  said,  whether 
proving  anything  affirmatively  or  negatively,  or  expressing  some 
general  reflection,  etc. 

Fourth  in  order  is  the  diction  —  that  is,  as  I  have  already  said, 
the  expression  of  the  sentiments  by  words,  the  power  and  effect 
of  which  is  the  same,  whether  in  verse  or  prose. 

Of  the  remaining  two  parts  the  music  stands  next  —  of  all 
the  pleasurable  accompaniments  and  embellishments  of  tragedy 
the  most  delightful. 

The  decoration  has  also  a  great  effect,  but,  of  all  the  parts, 
is  most  foreign  to  the  art;  for  the  power  of  tragedy  is  felt  with- 
out representation  and  actors,  and  the  beauty  of  the  decorations 
depends  more  on  the  art  of  the  mechanic  than  on  that  of  the  poet. 


198  ARISTOTLE 

These  things  being  thus  adjusted,  let  us  go  on  to  examine  in 
what  manner  the  fable  should  be  constructed,  since  this  is  the 
first  and  most  important  part  of  tragedy. 

Now,  we  have  defined  tragedy  to  be  an  imitation  of  an  action 
that  is  complete  and  entire,  and  that  has  also  a  certain  magni- 
tude; for  a  thing  may  be  entire  and  a  whole,  and  yet  not  be  of 
any  magnitude. 

1.  By  entire  I  mean  that  which  has  a  beginning,  a  middle, 
and  an  end.  A  beginning  is  that  which  does  not  necessarily  sup- 
pose anything  before  it,  but  which  requires  something  to  follow 
it.  An  end,  on  the  contrary,  is  that  which  supposes  something 
to  precede  it,  either  necessarily  or  probably,  but  which  nothing  is 
required  to  follow.  A  middle  is  that  which  both  supposes  some- 
thing to  precede  and  requires  something  to  follow.  The  poet, 
therefore,  who  would  construct  his  fable  properly  is  not  at  liberty 
to  begin  or  end  where  he  pleases,  but  must  conform  to  these 
definitions. 

2.  Again:  whatever  is  beautiful,  whether  it  be  an  animal,  or 
any  other  thing  composed  of  different  parts,  must  not  only  have 
those  parts  arranged  in  a  certain  manner,  but  must  also  be  of  a 
certain  magnitude;  for  beauty  consists  in  magnitude  and  order. 
Hence  it  is  that  no  very  minute  animal  can  be  beautiful;  the  eye 
comprehends  the  whole  too  instantaneously  to  distinguish  and 
compare  the  parts.  Neither,  on  the  contrary,  can  one  of  a  pro- 
digious size  be  beautiful;  because,  as  all  its  parts  cannot  be  seen 
at  once,  the  whole  (the  unity  of  object)  is  lost  to  the  spectator, — as 
it  would  be,  for  example,  if  he  were  surveying  an  animal  of  many 
miles  in  length.  As,  therefore,  in  animals  and  other  objects,  a 
certain  magnitude  is  requisite,  but  that  magnitude  must  be  such 
as  to  present  a  whole  easily  comprehended  by  the  eye,  so  in  the 
fable  a  certain  length  is  requisite,  but  that  length  must  be  such 
as  to  present  a  whole  easily  comprehended  by  the  memory. 

With  respect  to  the  measure  of  this  length  —  if  referred  to 
actual  representation  in  the  dramatic  contests,  it  is  a  matter  for- 
eign to  the  art  itself;  for  if  a  hundred  tragedies  were  to  be  ex- 
hibited in  concurrence,  the  length  of  each  performance  must  be 
regulated  by  the  hourglass, —  a  practice  of  which,  it  is  said, 
there  have  formerly  been  instances.  But  if  we  determine  this 
measure  by  the  nature  of  the  thing  itself,  the  more  extensive 
the  fable,  consistently  with  the  clear  and  easy  comprehension  of 
the  whole,  the  more  beautiful  will  it  be  with   respect  to  magni- 


ARISTOTLE  199 

tude.  In  general,  we  may  say  that  an  action  is  sufficiently  ex- 
tended when  it  is  long  enough  to  admit  of  a  change  of  fortune, 
from  happy  to  unhappy,  or  the  reverse,  brought  about  by  a  suc- 
cession, necessary  or  probable,  of  well-connected  incidents. 

A  fable  is  not  one,  as  some  conceive  it  to  be,  merely  because 
the  hero  of  it  is  one.  For  numberless  events  happen  to  one 
man,  many  of  which  are  such  as  cannot  be  connected  into  one 
event;  and  so,  likewise,  there  are  many  actions  of  one  man  which 
cannot  be  connected  into  any  one  action.  Hence  appears  the 
mistake  of  all  those  poets  who  have  composed  (<  Herculeids,8 
(<  Theseids, w  and  other  poems  of  that  kind.  They  conclude  that 
because  Hercules  was  one,  so  also  must  be  the  fable  of  whi'ch 
he  is  the  subject.  But  Homer,  among  his  many  other  excel- 
lences, seems  also  to  have  been  perfectly  aware  of  this  mistake, 
either  from  art  or  genius.  For  when  he  composed  his  (<  Odys- 
sey, n  he  did  not  introduce  all  the  events  of  his  hero's  life  — 
such,  for  instance,  as  the  wound  he  received  upon  Parnassus;  his 
feigned  madness  when  the  Grecian  army  was  assembling,  etc., — 
events  not  connected,  either  by  necessary  or  probable  conse- 
quence, with  each  other;  but  he  comprehended  those  only  which 
have  relation  to  one  action ;  for  such  we  call  that  of  the  (<  Odys- 
sey. w     And  in  the  same  manner  he  composed  his  <(  Iliad. 9 

As,  therefore,  in  other  mimetic  arts,  one  imitation  is  an  imi- 
tation of  one  thing,  so  here  the  fable,  being  an  imitation  of  an 
action,  should  be  an  imitation  of  an  action  that  is  one  and  en- 
tire, the  parts  of  it  being  so  connected  that  if  any  one  of  them 
be  either  transposed  or  taken  away  the  whole  will  be  destroyed 
or  changed;  for  whatever  may  be  either  retained  or  omitted, 
without  making  any  sensible  difference,  is  not  properly  a  part. 

It  appears,  further,  from  what  has  been  said,  that  it  is  not  the 
poet's  province  to  relate  such  things  as  have  actually  happened, 
but  such  as  might  have  happened  —  such  as  are  possible,  accord- 
ing either  to  probable  or  necessary  consequence. 

For  it  is  not  by  writing  in  verse  or  prose  that  the  historian 
and  the  poet  are  distinguished;  the  work  of  Herodotus  might  be 
versified,  but  it  would  still  be  a  species  of  history,  no  less  with 
metre  than  without.  They  are  distinguished  by  this  —  that  the 
one  relates  what  has  been,  the  other  what  might  be.  On  this 
account  poetry  is  a  more  philosophical  and  a  more  excellent 
thing  than  history;  for  poetry  is  chiefly  conversant  about  general 
truth,  history   about   particular.      In   what  manner,  for   example, 


200  ARISTOTLE 

any  person  of  a  certain  character  would  speak  or  act,  probably 
or  necessarily  —  this  is  general;  and  this  is  the  object  of  poetry, 
even  while  it  makes  use  of  particular  names.  But  what  Alcibi- 
ades  did,  or  what  happened  to  him  —  this  is  particular  truth. 

With  respect  to  comedy,  this  is  now  become  obvious;  for  here 
the  poet,  when  he  has  formed  his  plot  of  probable  incidents, 
gives  to  his  characters  whatever  names  he  pleases,  and  is  not, 
like  the  iambic  poets,  particular  and  personal. 

Tragedy,  indeed,  retains  the  use  of  real  names;  and  the  rea- 
son is,  that  what  we  are  disposed  to  believe  we  must  think  pos- 
sible. Now,  what  has  never  actually  happened  we  are  not  apt  to 
regard  as  possible;  but  what  has  been  is  unquestionably  so,  or  it 
could  not  have  been  at  all.  There  are,  however,  some  tragedies 
in  which  one  or  two  of  the  names  are  historical,  and  the  rest 
feigned.  There  are  even  some  in  which  none  of  the  names  are 
historical, —  such  is  Agatho's  tragedy  called  <(  The  Flower  M;  for  in 
that  all  is  invention,  both  incidents  and  names,  and  yet  it  pleases. 
It  is  by  no  means,  therefore,  essential  that  a  poet  should  confine 
himself  to  the  known  and  established  subjects  of  tragedy.  Such 
a  restraint  would,  indeed,  be  ridiculous,  since  even  those  subjects 
that  are  known  are  known  comparatively  but  to  few,  and  yet  are 
interesting  to  all. 

From  all  this  it  is  manifest  that  a  poet  should  be  a  poet,  or 
maker,  of  fables  rather  than  of  verses,  since  it  is  imitation  that 
constitutes  the  poet,  and  of  this  imitation  actions  are  the  object; 
nor  is  he  the  less  a  poet  though  the  incidents  of  his  fable  should 
chance  to  be  such  as  have  actually  happened;  for  nothing  hin- 
ders, but  that  some  true  events  may  possess  that  probability,  the 
invention  of  which  entitles  him  to  the  name  of  poet. 

Of  simple  fables  or  actions  the  episodic  are  the  worst.  I  call 
that  an  episodic  fable  the  episodes  of  which  follow  each  other 
without  any  probable  or  necessary  connection, — a  fault  into  which 
bad  poets  are  betrayed  by  their  want  of  skill,  and  good  poets  by 
the  players;  for  in  order  to  accommodate  their  pieces  to  the  pur- 
poses of  rival  performers  in  the  dramatic  contests,  they  spin  out 
the  action  beyond  their  powers,  and  are  thus  frequently  forced 
to  break  the  connection  and  continuity  of  its  parts. 

But  tragedy  is  an  imitation  not  only  of  a  complete  action, 
but  also  of  an  action  exciting  terror  and  pity.  Now,  that  pur- 
pose is  best  answered  by  such  events  as  are  not  only  unexpected, 
but   unexpected   consequences  of   each  other;    for   by  this  means 


ARISTOTLE  201 

they  will  have  more  of  the  wonderful  than  if  they  appeared  to 
be  the  effects  of  chance;  since  we  find  that,  among  events  merely 
casual,  those  are  the  most  wonderful  and  striking  which  seem  to 
imply  design:  as  when,  for  instance,  the  statue  of  Mitys  at  Argos 
killed  the  very  man  who  had  murdered  Mitys,  by  falling  down 
upon  him  as  he  was  surveying  it, —  events  of  this  kind  not  having 
the  appearance  of  accident.  It  follows,  then,  that  such  fables  as 
are  formed  on  these  principles  must  be  the  best. 

Fables  are  of  two  sorts,  simple  and  complicated:  for  so  also 
are  the  actions  themselves  of  which  they  are  imitations.  An 
action  (having  the  continuity  and  unity  prescribed)  I  call  simple 
when  its  catastrophe  is  produced  without  either  revolution  or  dis- 
covery; complicated,  when  with  one  or  both.  And  these  should 
arise  from  the  structure  of  the  fable  itself,  so  as  to  be  the  nat- 
ural consequences,  necessary  or  probable,  of  what  has  preceded 
in  the  action.  For  there  is  a  wide  difference  between  incidents 
that  follow  from  and  incidents  that  follow  only  after  each  other. 

A  revolution  is  a  change  (such  as  has  already  been  men- 
tioned) into  the  reverse  of  what  is  expected  from  the  circum- 
stances of  the  action,  and  that  produced,  as  we  have  said,  by 
probable  or  necessary  consequence. 

Thus,  in  the  <(  CEdipus,  °  the  messenger,  meaning  to  make 
CEdipus  happy,  and  to  relieve  him  from  the  dread  he  was  under 
with  respect  to  his  mother,  by  making  known  to  him  his  real 
birth,  produces  an  effect  directly  contrary  to  his  intention.  Thus, 
also,  in  the  tragedy  of  <c  Lynceus,  *  Lynceus  is  led  to  suffer 
death,  Danaus  follows  to  inflict  it;  but  the  event,  resulting  from 
the  course  of  the  incidents,  is  that  Danaus  is  killed  and  Lynceus 
saved. 

A  discovery  —  as,  indeed,  the  word  implies  —  is  a  change 
from  unknown  to  known,  happening  between  those  characters 
whose  happiness  or  unhappiness  forms  the  catastrophe  of  the 
drama,  and  terminating  in  friendship  or  enmity. 

The  best  sort  of  discovery  is  that  which  is  accompanied  by  a 
revolution,  as  in  the  <(  CEdipus. B 

There  are  also  other  discoveries,  for  inanimate  things  of  any 
kind  may  be  recognized  in  the  same  manner,  and  we  may  discover 
whether  such  a  particular  thing  was,  or  was  not,  done  by  such  a 
person.  But  the  discovery  most  appropriated  to  the  fable  and 
the  action  is  that  above  defined,  because  such  discoveries  and 
revolutions  must  excite  either  pity  or  terror ;  and  tragedy  we  have 


202 


ARISTOTLE 


defined   to   be   an   imitation   of   pitiable   and    terrible  actions,  and 
because,  also,  by  them  the  event,  happy  or  unhappy,  is  produced. 

Now  discoveries,  being  relative  things,  are  sometimes  of  one 
of  the  persons  only,  the  other  being  already  known;  and  some- 
times they  are  reciprocal.  Thus  Iphigenia  is  discovered  to  Ores- 
tes by  the  letter  which  she  charges  him  to  deliver;  and  Orestes 
is  obliged,  by  other  means,  to  make  himself  known  to  her. 

These,  then,  are  two  parts  of  the  fable — revolution  and  dis- 
covery. There  is  a  third  which  we  denominate  disasters.  The 
two  former  have  been  explained.  Disasters  comprehend  all  pain- 
ful or  destructive  actions :  the  exhibition  of  death,  bodily  anguish, 
wounds,  and  everything  of  that  kind. 

The  parts  of  tragedy  which  are  necessary  to  constitute  its 
quality  have  been  already  enumerated.  Its  parts  of  quantity  — 
the  distinct  parts  into  which  it  is  divided  —  are  these:  prologue, 
episode,  exode,  and  chorus,  which  last  is  also  divided  into  the 
parode  and  the  stasimon.  These  are  common  to  all  tragedies. 
The  commoi  are  found  in  some  only. 

The  prologue  is  all  that  part  of  a  tragedy  which  precedes  the 
parode  of  the  chorus;  the  episode,  all  that  part  which  is  included 
between  entire  choral  odes;  the  exode,  that  part  which  has  no 
choral  ode  after  it. 

Of  the  choral  part,  the  parode  is  the  first  speech  of  the  whole 
chorus;  the  stasimon  includes  all  those  choral  odes  that  are  with- 
out anapests  and  trochees. 

The  commos  is  a  general  lamentation  of  the  chorus  and  the 
actors  together. 

Such  are  the  separate  parts  into  which  tragedy  is  divided.  Its 
parts  of  quality  were  before  explained. 

The  order  of  the  subject  leads  us  to  consider,  in  the  next 
place,  what  the  poet  should  aim  at,  and  what  avoid,  in  the  con- 
struction of  his  fable ;  and  by  what  means  the  purpose  of  tragedy 
may  be  best  effected. 

Now,  since  it  is  requisite  to  the  perfection  of  a  tragedy  that 
its  plot  should  be  of  the  complicated,  not  of  the  simple  kind,  and 
that  it  should  imitate  such  actions  as  excite  terror  and  pity  (this 
being  the  peculiar  property  of  the  tragic  imitation),  it  follows 
evidently,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  change  from  prosperity  to 
adversity  should  not  be  represented  as  happening  to  a  virtuous 
character;  for  this  raises  disgust  rather  than  terror  or  compas- 
sion.    Neither  should  the  contrary  change,  from  adversity  to  pros- 


ARISTOTLE  203 

perity,  be  exhibited  in  a  vicious  character:  this,  of  all  plans,  is 
the  most  opposite  to  the  genius  of  tragedy,  having  no  one  pro- 
perty that  it  ought  to  have;  for  it  is  neither  gratifying  in  a 
moral  view,  nor  affecting,  nor  terrible.  Nor,  again,  should  the 
fall  of  a  very  bad  man  from  prosperous  to  adverse  fortune  be 
represented :  because,  though  such  a  subject  may  be  pleasing  from 
its  moral  tendency,  it  will  produce  neither  pity  nor  terror.  For 
our  pity  is  excited  by  misfortunes  undeservedly  suffered,  and  our 
terror  by  some  resemblance  between  the  sufferer  and  ourselves. 
Neither  of  these  effects  will,  therefore,  be  produced  by  such  an 
event. 

There  remains,  then,  for  our  choice,  the  character  between  these 
extremes:  that  of  a  person  neither  eminently  virtuous  or  just, 
nor  yet  involved  in  misfortune  by  deliberate  vice  or  villainy,  but 
by  some  error  of  human  frailty;  and  this  person  should  also  be 
some  one  of  high  fame  and  flourishing  prosperity.  For  example, 
CEdipus,  Thyestes,  or  other  illustrious  men  of  such  families. 

Hence  it  appears  that,  to  be  well  constructed,  a  fable,  con- 
trary to  the  opinion  of  some,  should  be  single  rather  than  double ; 
that  the  change  of  fortune  should  not  be  from  adverse  to  prosper- 
ous, but  the  reverse;  and  that  it  should  be  the  consequence,  not 
of  vice,  but  of  some  great  frailty,  in  a  character  such  as  has  been 
described,  or  better  rather  than  worse. 

These  principles  are  confirmed  by  experience,  for  poets,  for- 
merly, admitted  almost  any  story  into  the  number  of  tragic  sub- 
jects; but  now  the  subjects  of  the  best  tragedies  are  confined 
to  a  few  families, —  to  Alcmseon,  CEdipus,  Orestes,  Meleager, 
Thyestes,  Telephus,  and  others,  the  sufferers  or  the  authors  of 
some  terrible  calamity. 

The  most  perfect  tragedy,  then,  according  to  the  principles 
of  the  art,  is  of  this  construction:  whence  appears  the  mistake  of 
those  critics  who  censure  Euripides  for  this  practice  in  his  trage- 
dies, many  of  which  terminate  unhappily;  for  this,  as  we  have 
shown,  is  right.  And,  as  the  strongest  proof  of  it,  we  find  that 
upon  the  stage  and  in  the  dramatic  contests  such  tragedies,  if 
they  succeed,  have  always  the  most  tragic  effect;  and  Euripides, 
though,  in  other  respects  faulty  in  the  conduct  of  his  subjects, 
seems  clearly  to  be  the  most  tragic  of  all  poets. 

I  place  in  the  second  rank  that  kind  of  fable  to  which  some 
assign  the  first:  that  which  is  of  a  double  construction,  like  the 
a  Odyssey, w  and  also  ends  in  two  opposite  events,  to  the  good  and 


204  ARISTOTLE 

to  the  bad  characters.  That  this  passes  for  the  best  is  owing  to 
the  weakness  of  the  spectators,  to  whose  wishes  the  poets  accom- 
modate their  productions.  This  kind  of  pleasure,  however,  is  not 
the  proper  pleasure  of  tragedy,  but  belongs  rather  to  comedy, 
for  there,  if  even  the  bitterest  enemies,  like  Orestes  and  ^Egis- 
thus,  are  introduced,  they  quit  the  scene  at  last  in  perfect  friend- 
ship, and  no  blood  is  shed  on  either  side. 

Terror  and  pity  may  be  raised  by  the  decoration, —  the  mere 
spectacle;  but  they  may  also  arise  from  the  circumstances  of  the 
action  itself,  which  is  far  preferable  and  shows  a  superior  poet. 
For  the  fable  should  be  so  constructed  that,  without  the  assistance 
of  the  sight,  its  incidents  may  excite  horror  and  commiseration 
in  those  who  hear  them  only:  an  effect  which  every  one  who 
hears  the  fable  of  the  <(  CEdipus a  must  experience.  But  to  pro- 
duce this  effect  by  means  of  the  decoration  discovers  want  of  art 
in  the  poet,  who  must  also  be  supplied,  by  the  public,  with  an 
expensive  apparatus. 

As  to  those  poets  who  make  use  of  the  decoration  in  order  to 
produce,  not  the  terrible,  but  the  marvelous  only,  their  purpose 
has  nothing  in  common  with  that  of  tragedy.  For  we  are  not 
to  seek  for  every  sort  of  pleasure  from  tragedy,  but  for  that 
only  which  is  proper  to  the  species. 

Since,  therefore,  it  is  the  business  of  the  tragic  poet  to  give 
that  pleasure  which  arises  from  pity  and  terror,  through  imita- 
tion, it  is  evident  that  he  ought  to  produce  that  effect  by  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  action  itself. 

Let  us  then  see  of  what  kind  those  incidents  are  which  ap- 
pear most  terrible  or  piteous. 

Now,  such  actions  must,  of  necessity,  happen  between  persons 
who  are  either  friends  or  enemies,  or  indifferent  to  each  other. 
If  an  enemy  kills,  or  purposes  to  kill,  an  enemy,  in  neither  case 
is  any  commiseration  raised  in  us  beyond  what  necessarily  arises 
from  the  nature  of  the  action  itself. 

The  case  is  the  same  when  the  persons  are  neither  friends 
nor  enemies.     But  when   such   disasters  happen  between  friends 

—  when,  for  instance,  the  brother  kills  or  is  going  to  kill  his 
brother,  the   son   his   father,  the  mother  her  son,  or  the  reverse 

—  these,  and  others  of  a  similar  kind,  are  the  proper  incidents 
for  the  poet's  choice.  The  received  tragic  subjects,  therefore,  he 
is  not  at  liberty  essentially  to  alter;  Clytemnestra  must  die  by 
the  hand  of  Orestes,  and  Eriphyle  by  that  of  Alcmaeon;  but  it  is 


ARISTOTLE  205 

his  province  to  invent  other  subjects,  and  to  make  a  skillful  use 
of  those  which  he  finds  already  established.  What  I  mean  by  a 
skillful  use  I  proceed  to  explain. 

The  atrocious  action  may  be  perpetrated  knowingly  and  inten- 
tionally, as  was  usual  with  the  earlier  poets,  and  as  Euripides, 
also,  has  represented  Medea  destroying  her  children. 

It  may,  likewise,  be  perpetrated  by  those  who  are  ignorant, 
at  the  time,  of  the  connection  between  them  and  the  injured 
person,  which  they  afterwards  discover;  like  CEdipus,  in  Sopho- 
cles. There,  indeed,  the  action  itself  does  not  make  a  part  of  the 
drama :  the  (C Alcmaeon w  of  Astydamas,  and  Telegonus  in  the 
<(  Ulysses  Wounded, B  furnish  instances  within  the  tragedy. 

There  is  yet  a  third  way,  where  a  person  upon  the  point  of 
perpetrating,  through  ignorance,  some  dreadful  deed,  is  prevented 
by  a  sudden  discovery. 

Beside  these  there  is  no  other  proper  way, —  for  the  action 
must  of  necessity  be  either  done  or  not  done,  and  that  either 
with  knowledge  or  without,  but  of  all  these  ways,  that  of  being 
ready  to  execute,  knowingly,  and  yet  not  executing,  is  the  worst; 
for  this  is,  at  the  same  time,  shocking  and  yet  not  tragic,  because 
it  exhibits  no  disastrous  event.  It  is,  therefore,  never,  or  very 
rarely,  made  use  of.  The  attempt  of  Haemon  to  kill  Creon  in 
the  "Antigone w  is  an  example. 

Next  to  this  is  the  actual  execution  of  the  purpose. 

To  execute,  through  ignorance,  and  afterwards  to  discover,  is 
better;  for  thus  the  shocking  atrociousness  is  avoided,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  the  discovery  is  striking. 

But  the  best  of  all  these  ways  is  the  last.  Thus  in  the  trag- 
edy of  « Cresphontes, »  Merope,  in  the  very  act  of  putting  her 
son  to  death,  discovers  him  and  is  prevented.  In  the  (<  Iphi- 
genia,w  the  sister  in  the  same  manner  discovers  her  brother;  and 
in  the  «  Helle »  the  son  discovers  his  mother  at  the  instant  when 
he  is  going  to  betray  her. 

On  this  account  it  is  that  the  subjects  of  tragedy,  as  before 
remarked,  are  confined  to  a  small  number  of  families,  for  it 
was  not  to  art,  but  to  fortune,  that  poets  applied  themselves  to 
find  incidents  of  this  nature.  Hence  the  necessity  of  having 
recourse  to  those  families  in  which  such  calamities  have  hap- 
pened. 

Of  the  plot  or  fable  and  its  requisites  enough  has  now  been 
said. 


206  ARISTOTLE 

With  respect  to  the  manners  four  things  are  to  be  attended 
to  by  the  poet. 

First  and  principally,  they  should  be  good.  Now,  manners  or 
character  belong,  as  we  have  said  before,  to  any  speech  or  action 
that  manifests  a  certain  disposition;  and  they  are  bad  or  good 
as  the  disposition  manifested  is  bad  or  good.  This  goodness  of 
manners  may  be  found  in  persons  of  every  description;  the 
manners  of  a  woman  or  of  a  slave  may  be  good,  though,  in  gen- 
eral, women  are,  perhaps,  rather  bad  than  good,  and  slaves  alto- 
gether bad. 

The  second  requisite  of  the  manners  is  propriety.  There  is  a 
manly  character  of  bravery  and  fierceness  which  cannot,  with 
propriety,  be  given  to  a  woman. 

The  third  requisite  is  resemblance;  for  this  is  a  different 
thing  from  their  being  good  and  proper,  as  above  described. 

The  fourth  is  consistency;  for  even  though  the  model  of  the 
poet's  imitation  be  some  person  of  inconsistent  manners,  still 
that  person  must  be  represented  as  consistently  inconsistent. 

We  have  an  example  of  manners  unnecessarily  bad,  in  the 
character  of  Menelaus  in  the  tragedy  of  (<  Orestes w ;  of  improper 
and  unbecoming  manners  in  the  lamentation  of  Ulysses  in 
<(Scylla,  *  and  in  the  speech  of  Menalippe;  of  inconsistent  man- 
ners in  the  <(  Iphigenia  at  Aulis,"  —  for  there  the  Iphigenia  who 
supplicates  for  life  has  no  resemblance  to  the  Iphigenia  of  the 
conclusion. 

In  the  manners,  as  in  the  fable,  the  poet  should  always  aim, 
either  at  what  is  necessary,  or  what  is  probable;  so  that  such  a 
character  shall  appear  to  speak  or  act,  necessarily  or  probably,  in 
such  a  manner,  and  this  event  to  be  the  necessary  or  probable 
consequence  of  that.  Hence  it  is  evident  that  the  development 
also  of  a  fable  should  arise  out  of  the  fable  itself,  and  not  de- 
pend upon  machinery,  as  in  the  <(  Medea,  *  or  in  the  incidents  rel- 
ative to  the  return  of  the  Greeks,  in  the  <(  Iliad. B  The  proper 
application  of  machinery  is  to  such  circumstances  as  are  extra- 
neous to  the  drama;  such  as  either  happened  before  the  time 
of  the  action  and  could  not  by  human  means  be  known,  or  are 
to  happen  after  and  require  to  be  foretold;  for  to  the  gods 
we  attribute  the  knowledge  of  all  things.  But  nothing  improb- 
able should  be  admitted  in  the  incidents  of  the  fable;  or,  if  it 
cannot  be  avoided,  it  should  at  least  be  confined  to  such  as  are 
without  the  tragedy  itself,  as  in  the  (<  CEdipus  9  of  Sophocles. 


ARISTOTLE  207 

Since  tragedy  is  an  imitation  of  what  is  best,  we  should  fol- 
low the  example  of  skillful  portrait  painters;  who,  while  they 
express  the  peculiar  lineaments  and  produce  a  likeness,  at  the 
same  time  improve  upon  the  original.  And  thus,  too,  the  poet, 
when  he  imitates  the  manners  of  passionate  men  (or  of  indolent, 
or  any  other  of  a  similar  kind),  should  draw  an  example  ap- 
proaching rather  to  a  good  than  to  a  hard  and  ferocious  charac- 
ter: as  Achilles  is  drawn  by  Agatho  and  by  Homer.  These 
things  the  poet  should  keep  in  view;  and,  besides  these,  what- 
ever relates  to  those  senses  which  have  a  necessary  connection 
with  poetry;  for  here,  also,  he  may  often  err.  But  of  this  enough 
has  been  said  in  the  treatises  already  published. 

What  is  meant  by  a  discovery  has  already  been  explained. 
Its  kinds  are  the  following:  — 

First.  The  most  inartificial  of  all,  and  to  which,  from  poverty 
of  invention,  the  generality  of  poets  have  recourse, —  the  dis- 
covery by  visible  signs.  Of  these  signs,  some  are  natural;  as 
the  lance  with  which  the  family  of  the  earth-born  Thebans  was 
marked,  or  the  stars  which  Carcinus  has  made  use  of  in  his 
<(  Thyestes 8 ;  others  are  adventitious,  and  of  these  some  are  cor- 
poral, as  scars;  some  external,  as  necklaces,  bracelets,  etc.,  or  the 
little  boat  by  which  the  discovery  is  made  in  the  tragedy  of 
<(Tyro.w  Even  these,  however,  may  be  employed  with  more  or 
less  skill.  The  discovery  of  Ulysses,  for  example,  to  his  nurse, 
by  means  of  his  scar,  is  very  different  from  his  discovery,  by  the 
same  means,  to  the  herdsmen.  For  all  those  discoveries,  in 
which  the  sign  is  produced  by  way  of  proof,  are  inartificial. 
Those  which,  like  that  in  the  washing  of  Ulysses,  happen  sud- 
denly and  casually,  are  better. 

Second.  Discoveries  invented  at  pleasure,  by  the  poet,  and, 
on  that  account,  still  inartificial.  For  example :  in  the  (<  Iphige- 
nia,w  Orestes,  after  having  discovered  his  sister,  discovers  him- 
self to  her.  She,  indeed,  is  discovered  by  the  letter,  but  Orestes 
by  verbal  proofs;  and  these  are  such  as  the  poet  chooses  to 
make  him  produce,  not  such  as  arise  from  the  circumstances  of 
the  fable.  This  kind  of  discovery,  therefore,  borders  upon  the 
fault  of  that  first  mentioned;  for  some  of  the  things  from  which 
those  proofs  are  drawn  are  even  such  as  might  have  been  actu- 
ally produced  as  visible  signs. 

Another  instance  is  the  discovery  by  the  sound  of  the  shuttle 
in  the  <(  Tereus  M  of  Sophocles. 


2o8  ARISTOTLE 

Third.  The  discovery  occasioned  by  memory;  as  when  some 
recollection  is  excited  by  the  view  of  a  particular  object.  Thus, 
in  the  <(  Cyprians w  of  Dicseogenes,  a  discovery  is  produced  by 
tears  shed  at  the  sight  of  a  picture;  and  thus,  in  the  tale  of  Al- 
cinous,  Ulysses,  listening  to  the  bard,  recollects,  weeps,  and  is 
discovered. 

Fourth.  The  discovery  occasioned  by  reasoning  or  inference; 
such  as  that  in  the  (<  Choephorae w :  (<  The  person  who  is  arrived 
resembles  me  —  no  one  resembles  me  but  Orestes  —  it  must  be 
he !  w  And  that  of  Polyides  the  Sophist  in  his  <(  Iphigenia  B ;  for 
the  conclusion  of  Orestes  was  natural.  <(  It  had  been  his  sister's 
lot  to  be  sacrificed,  and  it  was  now  his  own!"  That,  also,  in 
the  «  Tydeus  »  of  Theodectes :  — «  He  came  to  find  his  son,  and  he 
himself  must  perish ! B  And  thus,  the  daughters  of  Phineus,  in 
the  tragedy  named  from  them,  viewing  the  place  to  which  they 
were  led,  infer  their  fate: — <(  there  they  were  to  die,  for  there 
they  were  exposed ! B  There  is  also  a  compound  sort  of  discov- 
ery, arising  from  false  inference  in  the  audience :  as  in  <c  Ulysses 
the  False  Messenger, w  he  asserts  that  he  shall  know  the  bow, 
which  he  had  not  seen;  the  audience  falsely  infer  that  a  discov- 
ery by  that  means  will  follow. 

But,  of  all  discoveries,  the  best  is  that  which  arises  from  the 
action  itself,  and  in  which  a  striking  effect  is  produced  by  prob- 
able incidents.  Such  is  that  in  the  <(  CEdipus "  of  Sophocles,  and 
that  in  the  (<  Iphigenia B ;  for  nothing  more  natural  than  her 
desire  of  conveying  the  letter.  Such  discoveries  are  the  best,  be- 
cause they  alone  are  effected  without  the  help  of  invented  proofs, 
or  bracelets,  etc. 

Next  to  these  are  the  discoveries  by  inference. 

The  poet,  both  when  he  plans  and  when  he  writes  his  trag- 
edy, should  put  himself  as  much  as  possible  in  the  place  of  a 
spectator;  for  by  this  means,  seeing  everything  distinctly,  as  if 
present  at  the  action,  he  will  discern  what  is  proper,  and  no  in- 
consistencies will  escape  him.  The  fault  objected  to  Carcinus  is 
a  proof  of  this.  Amphiaraus  had  left  the  temple.  This  the 
poet,  for  want  of  conceiving  the  action  to  pass  before  his  eyes, 
overlooked;  but  in  the  representation  the  audience  was  dis- 
gusted and  the  piece  condemned. 

In  composing,  the  poet  should  even,  as  much  as  possible,  be 
an  actor;  for  by  natural  sympathy  they  are  most  persuasive  and 
affecting   who   are   under    the   influence   of    actual   passion.      We 


ARISTOTLE  209 

share  the  agitation  of  those  who  appear  to  be  truly  agitated;  the 
anger  of  those  who  appear  to  be  truly  angry. 

Hence  it  is  that  poetry  demands  either  great  natural  quick- 
ness of  parts  or  an  enthusiasm  allied  to  madness.  By  the  first 
of  these  we  mold  ourselves  with  facility  to  the  imitation  of  every 
form;  by  the  other,  transported  out  of  ourselves,  we  become 
what  we  imagine. 

When  the  poet  invents  a  subject,  he  should  first  draw  a  gen- 
eral sketch  of  it,  and  afterwards  give  it  the  detail  of  its  episodes 
and  extend  it.  The  general  argument,  for  instance,  of  the  (<  Iphi- 
genia"  should  be  considered  in  this  way:  (<  A  virgin,  on  the 
point  of  being  sacrificed,  is  imperceptibly  conveyed  away  from 
the  altar  and  transported  to  another  country,  where  it  was  the 
custom  to  sacrifice  all  strangers  to  Diana.  Of  these  rites  she  is 
appointed  priestess.  It  happens,  some  time  after,  that  her  brother 
arrives  there.  *  But  why  ?  Because  an  oracle  had  commanded 
him,  for  some  reason  exterior  to  the  general  plan.  For  what 
purpose  ?  This  also  is  exterior  to  the  plan.  <c  He  arrives,  is 
seized,  and,  at  the  instant  that  he  is  going  to  be  sacrificed,  the 
discovery  is  made."  And  this  may  be,  either  in  the  way  of 
Euripides,  or  like  that  of  Polyides,  by  the  natural  reflection  of 
Orestes,  that  (<it  was  his  fate  also,  as  it  had  been  his  sister's,  to 
be  sacrificed n ;   by  which  exclamation  he  is  saved. 

After  this  the  poet,  when  he  has  given  names  to  his  charac- 
ters, should  proceed  to  the  episodes  of  his  action;  and  he  must 
take  care  that  these  belong  properly  to  the  subject;  like  that  of 
the  madness  of  Orestes,  which  occasions  his  being  taken,  and  his 
escape  by  means  of  the  ablution.  In  dramatic  poetry  the  epi- 
sodes are  short;  but  in  the  epic  they  are  the  means  of  drawing 
out  the  poem  to  its  proper  length.  The  general  story  of  the 
(<  Odyssey, *  for  example,  lies  in  a  small  compass.  <(  A  certain 
man  is  supposed  to  be  absent  from  his  own  country  for  many 
years;  he  is  persecuted  by  Neptune,  deprived  of  all  his  compan- 
ions, and  left  alone.  At  home  his  affairs  are  in  disorder  —  the 
suitors  of  his  wife  dissipating  his  wealth  and  plotting  the  destruc- 
tion of  his  son.  Tossed  by  many  tempests,  he  at  length  arrives, 
and,  making  himself  known  to  some  of  his  family,  attacks  his 
enemies,  destroys  them,  and  remains  himself  in  safety.8  This  is 
the  essential;   the  rest  is  episode. 

Every  tragedy  consists  of  two  parts — the  complication  and  the 

development.      The    complication    is    often    formed    by    incidents 
1— 14 


2io  ARISTOTLE 

supposed  prior  to  the  action,  and  by  a  part  also  of  those  that  are 
within  the  action;  the  rest  form  the  development.  I  call  compli- 
cation all  that  is  between  the  beginning  of  the  piece  and  the  last 
part,  where  the  change  of  fortune  commences;  development  all 
between  the  beginning  of  that  change  and  the  conclusion.  Thus 
in  the  (<  Lynceus a  of  Theodectes  the  events  antecedent  to  the 
action  and  the  seizure  of  the  child  constitute  the  complication; 
the  development  is  from  the  accusation  of  murder  to  the  end. 

There  are  four  kinds  of  tragedy,  deducible  from  so  many  parts, 
which  have  been  mentioned.  One  kind  is  the  complicated;  where 
all  depends  on  revolution  and  discovery.  Another  is  the  disas- 
trous, such  as  those  on  the  subject  of  <(Ajax,w  or  "Iadon.*  An- 
other, the  moral,  as  the  «  Phthiotides  »  and  the  (<  Peleus. »  And, 
fourthly,  the  simple,  such  as  the  (<  Phorcides, »  the  ((  Prometheus,  * 
and  all  those  tragedies  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  the  infernal 
regions. 

It  should  be  the  poet's  aim  to  make  himself  master  of  all 
these  manners;  of  as  many  of  them,  at  least,  as  possible,  and 
those  the  best:  especially  considering  the  captious  criticism  to 
which  in  these  days  he  is  exposed.  For  the  public,  having  now 
seen  different  poets  excel  in  each  of  these  different  kinds,  expect 
every  single  poet  to  unite  in  himself  and  to  surpass  the  peculiar 
excellences  of  them  all. 

One  tragedy  may  justly  be  considered  as  the  same  with  an- 
other, or  different,  not  according  as  the  subjects,  but  rather  ac- 
cording as  the  complication  and  development  are  the  same  or 
different.  Many  poets,  when  they  have  complicated  well,  develop 
badly.     They  should  endeavor  to  deserve  equal  applause  in  both. 

We  must  also  be  attentive  to  what  has  been  often  mentioned, 
and  not  construct  a  tragedy  upon  an  epic  plan.  By  an  epic  plan 
I  mean  a  fable  composed  of  many  fables;  as  if  any  one,  for  in- 
stance, should  take  the  entire  fable  of  the  «  Iliad  »  for  the  subject 
of  a  tragedy.  In  the  epic  poem  the  length  of  the  whole  admits  of 
a  proper  magnitude  in  the  parts;  but  in  the  drama  the  effect  of 
such  a  plan  is  far  different  from  what  is  expected.  As  a  proof 
of  this,  those  poets  who  have  formed  the  whole  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  Troy  into  a  tragedy,  instead  of  confining  themselves  (as 
Euripides,  but  not  ^Eschylus,  has  done  in  the  story  of  Niobe)  to 
a  part,  have  either  been  condemned  in  the  representation  or  have 
contended  without  success.  Even  Agatho  has  failed  on  this  ac- 
count, and  on  this  only;  for  in  revolutions,  and  in  actions  also  of 


ARISTOTLE  211 

the  simple  kind,  these  poets  succeed  wonderfully  in  what  they 
aim  at;  and  that  is,  the  union  of  tragic  effect  with  moral  ten- 
dency. As  when,  for  example,  a  character  of  great  wisdom,  but 
without  integrity,  is  deceived,  like  Sisyphus,  or  a  brave,  but  un- 
just man,  conquered.  Such  events,  as  Agatho  says,  are  probable, 
(<  as  it  is  probable,  in  general,  that  many  things  should  happen 
contrary  to  probability. w 

The  chorus  should  be  considered  as  one  of  the  persons  in  the 
drama ;  should  be  a  part  of  the  whole  and  a  sharer  in  the  action. 
Not  as  in  Euripides,  but  as  in  Sophocles.  As  for  other  poets, 
their  choral  songs  have  no  more  connection  with  their  subject 
than  with  that  of  any  other  tragedy,  and  hence  they  are  now 
become  detached  pieces,  inserted  at  pleasure;  a  practice  first  in- 
troduced by  Agatho.  Yet  where  is  the  difference  between  this 
arbitrary  insertion  of  an  ode  and  the  transposition  of  a  speech,  or 
even  of  a  whole  episode,  from  one  tragedy  to  another  ? 

Of  the  other  parts  of  tragedy  enough  has  now  been  said.  We 
are  next  to  consider  the  diction  and  the  sentiments. 

For  what  concerns  the  sentiments  we  refer  to  the  principles 
laid  down  in  the  books  on  rhetoric,  for  to  that  subject  they 
more  properly  belong.  The  sentiments  include  whatever  is  the 
object  of  speech;  as,  for  instance,  to  prove,  to  confute,  to  move 
the  passions  —  pity,  terror,  anger,  and  the  like;  to  amplify,  or  to 
diminish.  But  it  is  evident  that,  with  respect  to  the  things  them- 
selves also,  when  the  poet  would  make  them  appear  pitiable,  or 
terrible,  or  great,  or  probable,  he  must  draw  from  the  same 
sources,  with  this  difference  only,  that  in  the  drama  these  things 
must  appear  to  be  such  without  being  shown  to  be  such,  whereas 
in  oratory  they  must  be  made  to  appear  so  by  the  speaker,  and 
in  consequence  of  what  he  says;  otherwise,  what  need  of  an  ora- 
tor if  they  already  appear  so  in  themselves  and  not  through  his 
eloquence  ? 

With  respect  to  diction,  one  part  of  its  theory  is  that  which 
treats  of  the  figures  of  speech,  such  as  commanding,  entreating, 
relating,  menacing,  interrogating,  answering,  and  the  like.  But 
this  belongs,  properly,  to  the  art  of  acting  and  to  the  professed 
masters  of  that  kind.  The  poet's  knowledge  or  ignorance  of 
these  things  cannot  in  any  way  materially  affect  the  credit  of  his 
art.  For  who  will  suppose  there  is  any  justice  in  the  cavil  of 
Protagoras  —  that,  in  the  words,  (<The  wrath,  O  goddess,  sing," 
the  poet,  where  he  intended  a  prayer,  had  expressed  a  command; 


212 


ARISTOTLE 


for  he  insists  that  to  say,  Do  this,  or  do  it  not,  is  to  command. 
This  subject,  therefore,  we  pass  over,  as  belonging  to  an  art  dis- 
tinct from  that  of  poetry. 

To  all  diction  belong  the  following  parts:  the  letter,  the 
syllable,  the  conjunction,  the  noun,  the  verb,  the  article,  the  case, 
the  discourse  or  speech. 

i.  A  letter  is  an  indivisible  sound;  yet  not  all  such  sounds 
are  letters,  but  those  only  that  are  capable  of  forming  an  intelli- 
gible sound.  For  there  are  indivisible  sounds  of  brute  creatures; 
but  no  such  sounds  are  called  letters.  Letters  are  of  three 
kinds:  vowels,  semi-vowels,  and  mutes.  The  vowel  is  that  which 
has  a  distinct  sound  without  articulation,  as  a  or  o.  The  semi- 
vowel, that  which  has  a  distinct  sound  with  articulation,  as  s  and 
r.  The  mute,  that  which,  with  articulation,  has  yet  no  sound  by 
itself;  but,  joined  with  one  of  those  letters  that  have  some  sound, 
becomes  audible,  as  g  and  d.  These  all  differ  from  each  other, 
as  they  are  produced  by  different  configurations,  and  in  different 
parts  of  the  mouth;  as  they  are  aspirated  or  smooth,  long  or 
short;  as  their  tone  is  acute,  grave,  or  intermediate:  the  detail  of 
all  which  is  the  business  of  the  metrical  treatises. 

2.  A  syllable  is  a  sound  without  signification,  composed  of  a 
mute  and  a  vowel;  for  g  r,  without  a,  is  not  a  syllable;  with  a, 
as  g  r  a,  it  is.  But  these  differences  also  are  the  subject  of  the 
metrical  art. 

3.  A  conjunction  is  a  sound  without  signification,  ...  of 
such  a  nature  as,  out  of  several  sounds,  each  of  them  significant, 
to  form  one  significant  sound. 

4.  An  article  is  a  sound  without  signification,  which  marks  the 
beginning  or  the  end  of  a  sentence,  or  distinguishes,  as  when  we 
say,  To  (prjfii,  or  To  nep\  etc. 

5.  A  noun  is  a  sound  composed  of  other  sounds;  significant, 
without  expression  of  time,  and  of  which  no  part  is  by  itself  sig- 
nificant; for  even  in  double  words  the  parts  are  not  taken  in  the 
sense  that  separately  belongs  to  them.  Thus,  in  the  word  Theo- 
dorus,  dorus  is  not  significant. 

6.  A  verb  is  a  sound  composed  of  other  sounds;  significant  — 
with  expression  of  time  —  and  of  which,  as  of  the  noun,  no  part 
is  by  itself  significant.  Thus,  in  the  words,  man,  white,  indication 
of  time  is  not  included;  in  the  words,  he  walks,  he  walked,  etc., 
it  is  included;  the  one  expressing  the  present  time,  the  other  the 
past. 


ARISTOTLE  213 

7.  Cases  belong  to  nouns  and  verbs.  Some  cases  express  re- 
lation, as,  of,  to,  and  the  like;  others  number,  as  man,  or  men, 
etc.  Others  relate  to  action  or  pronunciation,  as  those  of  inter- 
rogation, of  command,  etc. ;  for  iftddteev  (did  he  go  ?)  and  pddtZe 
(go)  are  verbal  cases  of  that  kind. 

8.  Discourse,  or  speech,  is  a  sound  significant  composed  of 
other  sounds,  some  of  which  are  significant  by  themselves;  for 
all  discourse  is  not  composed  of  verbs  and  nouns  —  the  definition 
of  man,  for  instance.  Discourse,  or  speech,  may  subsist  without 
a  verb;  some  significant  part,  however,  it  must  contain:  signifi- 
cant as  the  word  Cleon  is  in  (<  Cleon  walks. w 

A  discourse  or  speech  is  one  in  two  senses,  either  as  it  signi- 
fies one  thing  or  several  things  made  one  by  conjunction.  Thus, 
the  <(  Iliad B  is  one  by  conjunction,  the  definition  of  man  by  sig- 
nifying one  thing. 

Of  words,  some  are  single  —  by  which  I  mean  composed  of 
parts  not  significant  —  and  some  double;  of  which  last  some  have 
one  part  significant  and  the  other  not  significant,  and  some  both 
parts  significant.  A  word  may  also  be  triple,  quadruple,  etc.,, 
like  many  of  those  used  by  the  Megaliotae,  as  Hermocaicoxanthus . 
Every  word  is  either  common,  or  foreign,  or  metaphorical,  or 
ornamental,  or  invented,  or  extended,  or  contracted,  or  altered. 

By  common  words  I  mean  such  as  are  in  general  and  estab- 
lished use;  by  foreign,  such  as  belong  to  a  different  language: 
so  that  the  same  word  may  evidently  be  both  common  and  for- 
eign, though  not  to  the  same  people.  The  word  Siyovov  to  the 
Cyprians  is  common,  to  us  foreign. 

A  metaphorical  word  is  a  word  transferred  from  its  proper 
sense;  either  from  genus  to  species,  or  from  species  to  genus,  or 
from  one  species  to  another,  or  in  the  way  of  analogy. 

1.  From  genus  to  species,  as:  — 

tt  Secure  in  yonder  port  my  vessel  stands. w 

For  to  be  at  anchor  is  one  species  of  standing  or  being  fixed. 

2.  From  species  to  genus,  as:  — 

(<  to  Ulysses 
A  thousand  generous  deeds  we  owe." 

For  a  thousand  is  a  certain  definite  many,  which  is  here  used  for 
many  in  general. 


214  ARISTOTLE 

3.  From  one  species  to  another,  as:  — 

(The  brazen  falchion  drew  away  his  life.) 
And 

Ta/^t'   drecpi't   %a?.K(b. 
(Cut  by  the  ruthless  sword.) 

For  here  the  poet  uses  rapelv,  to  cut  off,  instead  of  ipuaat,  to  draw 
forth,  and  Ipuoat  instead  of  rapelv.  each  being  a  species  of  tak- 
ing away. 

4.  In  the  way  of  analogy  —  when,  of  four  terms,  the  second 
bears  the  same  relation  to  the  first  as  the  fourth  to  the  third; 
in  which  case  the  fourth  may  be  substituted  for  the  second,  and 
the  second  for  the  fourth.  And  sometimes  the  proper  term  is 
also  introduced  besides  its  relative  term. 

Thus,  a  cup  bears  the  same  relation  to  Bacchus  as  a  shield  to 
Mars.  A  shield,  therefore,  may  be  called  the  cup  of  Mars,  and  a 
cup  the  shield  of  Bacchus.  Again,  evening  being  to  day  what 
old  age  is  to  life,  the  evening  may  be  called  the  old  age  of  the 
day,  and  old  age  the  evening  of  life;  or,  as  Empedocles  has 
expressed  it,  (<  Life's  setting  sun.w  It  sometimes  happens  that 
there  is  no  proper  analogous  term  answering  to  the  term  bor- 
rowed; which  yet  may  be  used  in  the  same  manner,  as  if  there 
were.  For  instance:  to  sow  is  the  term  appropriated  to  the  ac- 
tion of  dispersing  seed  upon  the  earth;  but  the  dispersion  of  rays 
from  the  sun  is  expressed  by  no  appropriated  term;  it  is,  how- 
ever, with  respect  to  the  sun's  light,  what  sowing  is  with  respect 
to  seed.     Hence  the  poet's  expression  of  the  sun  — 

<(  —  sowing  abroad 
His  heaven-created  flame. " 

There  is,  also,  another  way  of  using  this  kind  of  metaphor,  by 
adding  to  the  borrowed  word  a  negation  of  some  of  those  quali- 
ties which  belong  to  it  in  its  proper  sense:  as  if,  instead  of  call- 
ing a  shield  the  cup  of  Mars,  we  should  call  it  the  wineless  cup. 

An  invented  word  is  a  word  never  before  used  by  any  one, 
but  coined  by  the  poet  himself;  for  such,  it  appears,  there  are, 
as  ipvuTcu  for  Kipara,  horns,  or  dp-qr-qp  for  tepsbs,  a  priest. 

A  word  is  extended,  when  for  the  proper  vowel  a  longer  is 
substituted,  or  a  syllable  is  inserted.     A  word  is  contracted  when 


ARISTOTLE  215 

some  part  of  it  is  retrenched.  Thus,  it6Xt}o<:  for  n6kem<:,  and  Il^cadeo* 
for  llijkeidou,  are  extended  words;  contracted,  such  as  icpt,  and  6ojf 
and  «</',  e.  g.  — 

—  pia   ytvyerat   apyoTepwv   6<p 

An  altered  word  is  a  word  of  which  part  remains  in  its 
usual  state,  and  part  is  of  the  poet's  making:  as  in, 

deEjirepdv   Kara  pa£6v, 

ds^crepov   is   for   detfldv. 

Further,  nouns  are  divided  into  masculine,  feminine,  and  neu- 
ter. The  masculine  are  those  which  end  in  v,  p,  <r,  or  in  some 
letter  compounded  of  <r  and  a  mute;  these  are  two,  0  and  £. 
The  feminine  are  those  which  end  in  the  vowels  always  long,  as 
rj  or  w;  or  in  a,  of  the  doubtful  vowels:  so  that  the  masculine 
and  the  feminine  terminations  are  equal  in  number;  for  as  to  <f> 
and  £,  they  are  the  same  with  terminations  in  <r.  No  noun  ends 
in  a  mute  or  a  short  vowel.     There  are  but  three  ending  in  1: 

pile,  Koppi,  iziitept;   five   ending   in   u:   nu>o,  vdxu,  yovu,   dopu,  aero. 

The  neuter  terminate  in  these  two  last-mentioned  vowels,  and 
in  v  and  <r. 

The  excellence  of  diction  consists  in  being  perspicuous  with- 
out being  mean.  The  most  perspicuous  is  that  which  is  com- 
posed of  common  words;  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  mean. 
Such  is  the  poetry  of  Cleophon  and  that  of  Sthenelus.  That 
language,  on  the  contrary,  is  elevated  and  remote  from  the  vul- 
gar idiom  which  employs  unusual  words;  by  unusual  I  mean 
foreign,  metaphorical,  extended, —  all,  in  short,  that  are  not  com- 
mon words.  Yet,  should  a  poet  compose  his  diction  entirely  of 
such  words,  the  result  would  be  either  an  enigma  or  a  barbarous 
jargon:  an  enigma,  if  composed  of  metaphors;  a  barbarous  jargon, 
if  composed  of  foreign  words.  For  the  essence  of  an  enigma 
consists  of  putting  together  things  apparently  inconsistent  and  im- 
possible, and,  at  the  same  time,  saying  nothing  but  what  is  true. 
Now  this  cannot  be  effected  by  the  mere  arrangement  of  the 
words;  by  the  metaphorical  use  of  them,  it  may;  as  in  this 
enigma :  — 

(<  A  man  I  once  beheld  (and  wondering  viewed),  * 
Who  on  another  brass  with  fire  had  glued. w 

*  The  operation  of  « cupping »  performed  by  the  Greeks  with  a  brass  cup. 


2i6  ARISTOTLE 

With  respect  to  barbarism,  it  arises  from  the  use  of  foreign 
words.     A  judicious  intermixture  is,  therefore,  requisite. 

Thus  the  foreign  word,  the  metaphorical,  the  ornamental,  and 
the  other  species  before  mentioned,  will  raise  the  language  above 
the  vulgar  idiom,  and  common  words  will  give  it  perspicuity. 
But  nothing  contributes  more  considerably  to  produce  clearness, 
without  vulgarity  of  diction,  than  extensions,  contractions,  and  al- 
terations of  words:  for  here,  the  variation  from  the  proper  form 
being  unusual,  will  give  elevation  to  the  expression;  and,  at  the 
same  time,  what  is  retained  of  usual  speech  will  give  it  clearness. 
It  is  without  reason,  therefore,  that  some  critics  have  censured 
these  modes  of  speech,  and  ridiculed  the  poet  for  the  use  of 
them ;  as  old  Euclid  did,  objecting  that  "  versification  would  be  an 
easy  business,  if  it  were  permitted  to  lengthen  words  at  pleas- 
ure, 9  —  and  then  giving  a  burlesque  example  of  that  sort  of 
diction. 

Undoubtedly,  when  these  licenses  appear  to  be  thus  purposely 
used,  the  thing  becomes  ridiculous.  In  the  employment  of  all 
the  species  of  unusual  words,  moderation  is  necessary:  for  meta- 
phors, foreign  words,  or  any  of  the  others,  improperly  used,  and 
with  a  design  to  be  ridiculous,  would  produce  the  same  effect. 
But  how  great  a  difference  is  made  by  a  proper  and  temperate 
use  of  such  words  may  be  seen  in  heroic  verse.  Let  any  one 
only  substitute  common  words  in  the  place  of  the  metaphorical, 
the  foreign,  and  others  of  the  same  kind,  and  he  will  be  con- 
vinced of  the  truth  of  what  I  say.  For  example:  the  same  iam- 
bic verse  occurs  in  ^Eschylus  and  in  Euripides;  but,  by  means  of 
a  single  alteration — the  substitution  of  a  foreign  for  a  common 
and  usual  word,  one  of  these  verses  appears  beautiful,  the  other 
ordinary.     For  ^Eschylus,  in  his  ((  Philoctetes, *  says :  — 

<(Lo!   on  my  foot  a  wasting  ulcer  feeds  »; 

but  Euripides,  instead  of  (<  feeds B  has  written  <(  feasts. B 
The  same  difference  will  appear,  if,  in  this  verse, 

Nuv   di  fi    iiov   oXiyos  re   nai   oundavos  nai   okcku?, 

we  substitute  common  words,  and  say, 

N5v   Si  fM    iwv  /Wfpog  re  Kai   daSsvcuos  nai  decdjjs. 


ARISTOTLE  217 

So,  again,  should  we  for  the  following-  — 

A'ltppov   aEtniXtov   Kara&e\<i^  oXiyrjV   re   rpdneCav, 

substitute  this  — 

A'lfpov   fio^drjpdv   Ka.Ta&e\<;i  fxiKpdv   re  rpdns^av. 

Or  change  'Hiove?  Podwacv  (the  cliffs  rebellow)  to  'Hi^vec  Kpd^ouaiv 
(the  cliffs  croak  or  screech). 

Ariphrades  also  endeavored  to  throw  ridicule  upon  the  tragic 
poets,  for  making  use  of  such  expressions  as  no  one  would  think 
of  using  in  common  speech  —  as  Swpdrwv  aizoy  instead  of  and 
Scopdrajv;  and  <r(Bevy  and  iyiu  di  vcv,  and  'A^^A^c  *£pt,  instead  of  itep\ 
'A^/Ue^c,  etc.  Now  it  is  precisely  owing  to  their  being  not  in 
common  use  that  such  expressions  have  the  effect  of  giving  ele- 
vation to  the  diction.     But  this  he  did  not  know. 

To  employ  with  propriety  any  of  these  modes  of  speech  —  the 
double  words,  the  foreign,  etc. —  is  a  great  excellence.  But  the 
greatest  of  all  is  to  be  happy  in  the  use  of  metaphor;  for  it  is 
this  alone  which  cannot  be  acquired,  and  which,  consisting  in  a 
quick  discernment  of  resemblances,  is  a  certain  mark  of  genius. 

Of  the  different  kinds  of  words,  the  double  are  best  suited  to 
dithyrambic  poetry,  the  foreign  to  heroic,  the  metaphorical  to 
iambic.  In  heroic  poetry,  indeed,  they  have  all  their  place;  but 
to  iambic  verse,  which  is,  as  much  as  may  be,  an  imitation  of 
common  speech,  those  words  which  are  used  in  common  speech 
are  best  adapted,  and  such  are  —  the  common,  the  metaphorical, 
and  the  ornamental. 

Concerning  tragedy  and  the  imitation  by  action,  enough  has 
now  been  said. 

Part   III 

OF  THE   EPIC   POEM 

With  respect  to  that  species  of  poetry  which  imitates  by  nar- 
ration and  in  hexameter  verse,  it  is  obvious  that  the  fable  ought 
to  be  dramatically  constructed,  like  that  of  tragedy,  and  that  it 
should  have  for  its  subject  one  entire  and  perfect  action,  having 
a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end;  so  that,  forming,  like  an 
animal,  a  complete  whole,  it  may  afford  its  proper  pleasure, 
widely  differing  in  its  construction  from  history,  which  necessarily 


218  ARISTOTLE 

treats  not  of  one  action,  but  of  one  time  and  of  all  the  events 
that  happened  to  one  person,  or  to  many,  during  that  time  — 
events  the  relation  of  which  to  each  other  is  merely  casual.  For, 
as  the  naval  action  at  Salamis,  and  the  battle  with  the  Carthagin- 
ians in  Sicily,  were  events  of  the  same  time,  unconnected  by  any 
relation  to  a  common  end  or  purpose,  so  also,  in  successive 
events,  we  sometimes  see  one  thing  follow  another  without  being 
connected  to  it  by  such  relation.  And  this  is  the  practice  of  the 
generality  of  poets.  Even  in  this,  therefore,  as  we  have  before 
observed,  the  superiority  of  Homer's  genius  is  apparent  —  that  he 
did  not  attempt  to  bring  the  whole  war,  though  an  entire  action 
with  beginning  and  end,  into  his  poem.  It  would  have  been  too 
vast  an  object,  and  not  easily  comprehended  in  one  view;  or  had 
he  forced  it  into  a  moderate  compass,  it  would  have  been  per- 
plexed by  its  variety.  Instead  of  this,  selecting  one  part  only  of 
the  war,  he  has  from  the  rest  introduced  many  episodes — such 
as  the  catalogue  of  the  ships,  and  others  —  by  which  he  has 
diversified  his  poem.  Other  poets  take  for  their  subject  the  ac- 
tions of  one  person  or  of  one  period  of  time;  or  an  action  which, 
though  one,  is  composed  of  too  many  parts.  Thus  the  author  of 
the  (<  Cypriacs B  and  of  the  (<  Little  Iliad. w  Hence  it  is  that  the 
<(  Iliad *  and  the  (<  Odyssey, M  each  of  them  furnishes  matter  for 
one  tragedy,  two  at  most ;  but  from  the  <(  Cypriacs B  many  may 
be  taken,  and  from  the  <(  Little  Iliad w  more  than  eight,  as  the 
Contest  for  the  Armor,  Philoctetes,  Neoptolemus,  Eurypylus,  the 
Vagrant,  the  Spartan  Women,  the  Fall  of  Troy,  the  Return  of 
the  Fleet,   Sinon,   and  the  Trojan  Women. 

Again,  the  epic  poem  must  also  agree  with  the  tragic  as  to 
its  kinds  —  it  must  be  simple,  or  complicated,  moral,  or  disastrous. 
Its  parts  also,  setting  aside  music  and  decoration,  are  the  same, 
for  it  requires  revolutions,  discoveries,  and  disasters,  and  it  must 
be  furnished  with  proper  sentiments  and  diction,  of  all  which 
Homer  gave  both  the  first  and  the  most  perfect  example.  Thus, 
of  his  two  poems,  the  (<  Iliad B  is  of  the  simple  and  disastrous 
kind,  the  <(  Odyssey  B  complicated  (for  it  abounds  throughout  with 
discoveries)  and  moral.  Add  to  this,  that  in  language  and  senti- 
ments he  has  surpassed  all  poets. 

The  epic  poem  differs  from  tragedy  in  the  length  of  its  plan 
and  in  its  metre. 

With  respect  to  length,  a  sufficient  measure  has  already  been 
assigned.     It  should  be  such  as  to  admit  of  our  comprehending 


ARISTOTLE  219 

at  one  view  the  beginning-  and  the  end;  and  this  would  be  the 
case  if  the  epic  poem  were  reduced  from  its  ancient  length,  so 
as  not  to  exceed  that  of  such  a  number  of  tragedies  as  are  per- 
formed successively  at  one  hearing.  But  there  is  a  circumstance 
in  the  nature  of  epic  poetry  which  affords  it  peculiar  latitude  in 
the  extension  of  its  plan.  It  is  not  in  the  power  of  tragedy  to 
imitate  several  different  actions  performed  at  the  same  time;  it 
can  imitate  only  that  one  which  occupies  the  stage,  and  in  which 
the  actors  are  employed.  But  the  epic  imitation,  being  narrative, 
admits  of  many  such  simultaneous  incidents  properly  related  to 
the  subject,  which  swell  the  poem  to  a  considerable  size. 

And  this  gives  it  a  great  advantage,  both  in  point  of  mag- 
nificence, and  also  as  it  enables  the  poet  to  relieve  his  hearer 
and  diversify  his  work  by  a  variety  of  dissimilar  episodes;  for 
it  is  to  the  satiety  naturally  arising  from  similarity  that  tragedies 
frequently  owe  their  ill  success. 

With  respect  to  metre,  the  heroic  is  established  by  experience 
as  the  most  proper;  so  that  should  any  one  compose  a  narrative 
poem  in  any  other,  or  in  a  variety  of  metres,  he  would  be 
thought  guilty  of  a  great  impropriety.  For  the  heroic  is  the 
gravest  and  most  majestic  of  all  measures;  and  hence  it  is  that 
it  peculiarly  admits  the  use  of  foreign  and  metaphorical  ex- 
pressions. For  in  this  respect  also,  the  narrative  imitation  is 
abundant  and  various  beyond  the  rest.  But  the  iambic  and 
trochaic  have  more  motion;  the  latter  being  adapted  to  dance, 
the  other  to  action  and  business.  To  mix  these  different  metres, 
as  Chseremon  has  done,  would  be  still  more  absurd.  No  one, 
therefore,  has  ever  attempted  to  compose  a  poem  of  an  extended 
plan  in  any  other  than  heroic  verse;  nature  itself,  as  we  before 
observed,  pointing  out  the  proper  choice. 

Among  the  many  just  claims  of  Homer  to  our  praise,  this  is 
one,  that  he  is  the  only  poet  who  seems  to  have  understood  what 
part  in  his  poem  it  was  proper  for  him  to  take  himself.  The 
poet,  in  his  own  person,  should  speak  as  little  as  possible,  for 
he  is  not  then  the  imitator.  But  other  poets,  ambitious  to  figure 
throughout  themselves,  imitate  but  little,  and  seldom.  Homer, 
after  a  few  preparatory  lines,  immediately  introduces  a  man,  a 
woman,  or  some  other  character;  for  all  have  their  character  — 
nowhere  are  the  manners  neglected. 

The  surprising  is  necessary  in  tragedy;  but  the  epic  poem 
goes    further,  and    admits   even    the    improbable    and    incredible, 


220  ARISTOTLE 

from  which  the  highest  degree  of  the  surprising  results,  because 
there  the  action  is  not  seen.  The  circumstances,  for  example,  of 
the  pursuit  of  Hector  by  Achilles  are  such  as,  upon  the  stage, 
would  appear  ridiculous  —  the  Grecian  army  standing  still  and 
taking  no  part  in  the  pursuit,  and  Achilles  making  signs  to  them, 
by  the  motion  of  his  head,  not  to  interfere.  But  in  the  epic 
poem  this  escapes  our  notice.  Now  the  wonderful  always  pleases, 
as  is  evident  from  the  additions  which  men  always  make  in  relat- 
ing anything  in  order  to  gratify  the  hearers. 

It  is  from  Homer  principally  that  other  poets  have  learned 
the  art  of  feigning  well.  It  consists  in  a  sort  of  sophism.  When 
one  thing  is  observed  to  be  constantly  accompanied  or  followed 
by  another,  men  are  apt  to  conclude  that  if  the  latter  is  or  has 
happened,  the  former  must  also  be  or  must  have  happened.  But 
this  is  an  error,  .  .  .  for,  knowing  the  latter  to  be  true,  the 
mind  is  betrayed  into  the  false  inference  that  the  first  is  true 
also. 

The  poet  should  prefer  impossibilities  which  appear  probable 
to  such  things  as,  though  possible,  appear  improbable.  Far  from 
producing  a  plan  made  up  of  improbable  incidents,  he  should,  if 
possible,  admit  no  one  circumstance  of  that  kind;  or  if  he  does  it 
should  be  exterior  to  the  action  itself,  like  the  ignorance  of  GEdi- 
pus  concerning  the  manner  in  which  Laius  died;  not  within  the 
drama,  like  the  narrative  of  what  happened  at  the  Pythian  games 
in  the  (<  Electra  ® ;  or  in  (<  The  Mysians, B  the  man  who  travels  from 
Tegea  to  Mysia  without  speaking.  To  say  that  without  these  cir- 
cumstances the  fable  would  have  been  destroyed  is  a  ridiculous 
excuse.  The  poet  should  take  care,  from  the  first,  not  to  construct 
his  fable  in  that  manner.  If,  however,  anything  of  this  kind  has 
been  admitted,  and  yet  is  made  to  pass  under  some  color  of  prob- 
ability, it  may  be  allowed,  though  even  in  itself  absurd.  Thus, 
in  the  "Odyssey"  the  improbable  account  of  the  manner  in  which 
Ulysses  was  landed  upon  the  shore  of  Ithaca  is  such  as,  in  the 
hands  of  an  ordinary  poet,  would  evidently  have  been  intolerable. 
But  here  the  absurdity  is  concealed  under  the  various  beauties 
of  other  kinds,  with  which  the  poet  has  embellished  it. 

The  diction  should  be  most  labored  in  the  idle  parts  of  the 
poem  —  those  in  which  neither  manners  nor  sentiments  prevail; 
for  the  manners  and  the  sentiments  are  only  obscured  by  a  too 
splendid  diction. 


ARISTOTLE  221 


Part  IV 


OF    CRITICAL    OBJECTIONS,    AND    THE    PRINCIPLES    ON    WHICH    THEY    ARE    TO 

BE   ANSWERED 

With  respect  to  critical  objections  and  the  answers  to  them, 
the  number  and  nature  of  the  different  sources  from  which  they 
may  be  drawn  will  be  clearly  understood,  if  we  consider  them  in 
the  following  manner:  — 

1.  The  poet,  being  an  imitator  like  the  painter  or  any  other 
artist  of  that  kind,  must  necessarily,  when  he  imitates,  have  in 
view  one  of  these  three  objects:  he  must  represent  things  such 
as  they  were  or  are,  or  such  as  they  are  said  to  be  and  believed 
to  be,  or  such  as  they  should  be. 

2.  Again,  all  this  he  is  to  express  in  words,  either  common  or 
foreign  and  metaphorical;  or  varied  by  some  of  those  many 
modifications  and  peculiarities  of  language  which  are  the  privi- 
lege of  poets. 

3.  To  this  we  must  add,  that  what  is  right  in  the  poetic  art 
is  a  distinct  consideration  from  what  is  right  in  the  political  or 
any  other  art.  The  faults  of  poetry  are  of  two  kinds,  essential 
and  accidental.  If  the  poet  has  undertaken  to  imitate  without 
talents  for  imitation,  his  poetry  will  be  essentially  faulty.  But 
if  he  is  right  in  applying  himself  to  poetic  imitation,  yet  in  imi- 
tating is  occasionally  wrong, —  as  if  a  horse,  for  example,  were 
represented  moving  both  his  right  legs  at  once,  or,  if  he  has 
committed  mistakes,  or  described  things  impossible,  with  respect 
to  other  arts,  that  of  physic,  for  instance,  or  any  other, —  all  such 
faults,  whatever  they  may  be,  are  not  essential,  but  accidental, 
faults  in  the  poetry. 

To  the  foregoing  considerations,  then,  we  must  have  recourse, 
in  order  to  obviate  the  doubts  and  objections  of  the  critics. 

For,  in  the  first  place,  suppose  the  poet  to  have  represented 
things  impossible  with  respect  to  some  other  art.  This  is  cer- 
tainly a  fault.  Yet  it  may  be  an  excusable  fault,  provided  the 
end  of  the  poet's  art  be  more  effectually  obtained  by  it  —  that  is, 
according  to  what  has  already  been  said  of  that  end,  if,  by  this 
means,  that  or  any  other  part  of  the  poem  is  made  to  produce  a 
more  striking  effect.  The  pursuit  of  Hector  is  an  instance.  If, 
indeed,  this  end  might  as  well,  or  nearly  as  well,  have  been  at- 
tained without  departing  from  the  principles  of  the  particular  art 


222  ARISTOTLE 

in  question,  the  fault,  in  that  case,  could  not  be  justified,  since 
faults  of  every  kind  should,  if  possible,  be  avoided. 

Still,  we  are  to  consider  further  whether  a  fault  be  in  things 
essential  to  the  poetic  art  or  foreign  and  incidental  to  it;  for  it 
is  a  far  more  pardonable  fault  to  be  ignorant,  for  instance,  that 
a  hind  has  no  horns  than  to  paint  one  badly. 

Further,  if  it  be  objected  to  the  poet  that  he  has  not  repre- 
sented things  conformably  to  truth,  he  may  answer  that  he  has 
represented  them  as  they  should  be.  This  was  the  answer  of 
Sophocles,  that  <(  he  drew  mankind  such  as  they  should  be ;  Eu- 
ripides, such  as  they  are."     And  this  is  the  proper  answer. 

But  if  the  poet  has  represented  things  in  neither  of  these 
ways,  he  may  answer  that  he  has  represented  them  as  they  are 
said  and  believed  to  be.  Of  this  kind  are  the  poetical  descrip- 
tions of  the  gods.  It  cannot,  perhaps,  be  said  that  they  are 
either  what  is  best  or  what  is  true;  but,  as  Xenophanes  says, 
opinions  "taken  up  at  random, *  these  are  things,  however,  not 
w  clearly  known. w 

Again,  what  the  poet  has  exhibited  is  perhaps,  not  what  is 
best,  but  it  is  the  fact;  as  in  the  passage  about  the  arms  of  the 
sleeping  soldiers :  — 

<(  fixed  upright  in  the  earth 
Their  spears  stood  by." 

For  such  was  the  custom  at  that  time,  as  it  is  now  among  the 
Illyrians. 

In  order  to  judge  whether  what  is  said  or  done  by  any  char- 
acter be  well  or  ill,  we  are  not  to  consider  that  speech  or  action 
alone;  whether  in  itself  it  be  good  or  bad,  but  also  by  whom  it 
is  spoken  or  done,  to  whom,  at  what  time,  in  what  manner,  or 
for  what  end;  whether,  for  instance,  in  order  to  obtain  some 
greater  good,  or  to  avoid  some  greater  evil. 

For  the  solution  of  some  objections  we  must  have  recourse  to 
the  diction.     For  example:  — 

obprjag  fiev   TzpiuTov  — 

On  mules  and  dogs  the  infection  first  began. 

—  Pope. 

This  may  be  defended  by  saying  that  the  poet  has,  perhaps, 
used  the  word  o'o/^ac  in  its  foreign  acceptation  of  sentinels,  not 
in  its  proper  sense,  of  mules. 


ARISTOTLE  223 

So  also  in  the  passage  where  it  is  said  of  Dolon:  — 

eT^o^  /jtiv   erjv  /ca/co?. 
(Of  form  unhappy.) 

The  meaning  is  not  that  his  person  was  deformed,  but  that 
his  face  was  ugly;  for  the  Cretans  use  the  word  edeidis,  well- 
formed,  to  express  a  beautiful  face. 

Again :  — 

Zwporspov    de   nipaipe. 

Here  the  meaning  is  not  (<  mix  it  strong, w  as  for  intemperate 
drinkers,  but  <(  mix  it  quickly. w 

The  following  passages  may  be  defended  by  metaphor :  — 

Now  pleasing  sleep  had  sealed  each  mortal  eye ; 
Stretched  in  the  tents  the  Grecian  leaders  lie ; 
The  immortals  slumbered  on  their  thrones  above. 

—Pope. 
Again :  — 

(<  When  on  the  Trojan  plain  his  anxious  eye 
Watchful  he  fixed.* 
And  — 

AbXSyv  GupiyyiDv   6'  opaSov. 

For  (<  all B  is  put  metaphorically  instead  of  (<  many, w  all  being 
a  species  of  many. 
Here  also:  — 

(<The  bear  alone 
Still  shines  exalted  in  th'  etherial  plain, 
Nor  bathes  his  flaming  forehead  in  the  main." 

(<  Alone M  is  metaphorical  •    the  most  remarkable  thing  in  any 
kind  we  speak  of  as  the  only  one. 
We  may  have  recourse  also, 
3.   To  accent,  as  the  following  passage  — 

didopev   di   ol  — 

And  this  —  to  p£v  ob  KaTanuBerat  6[j.{3pa)  —  were  defended  by  Hip- 
pias  of  Thasos. 


224  ARISTOTLE 

4.  To  punctuation,  as  in  this  passage  of  Empedocles :  — 

Al(f>a   3e   BvfjT    lybovTO   zd   npiv  pdSov    dOdvar    ehat^ 
Ziopd  re  Ttpiv    anprjTa^ 

i.  e.  (Things,  before  immortal, 

Mortal  became,  and  mixed  before  unmixed, 
Their  courses  changed.) 

5.  To  ambiguity,  as  in  Tzapw^Kev  «5e  nXicov  vb$,  where  the  word 
TtXiiov  is  ambiguous. 

6.  To  customary  speech:  thus,  wine  mixed  with  water,  or 
whatever  is  poured  out  to  drink  as  wine,  is  called  ofvoc,  wine; 
hence  Ganymede  is  said,  A\\  olvo^ozbttv,  to  <(pour  the  wine  to  Jove, * 
though  wine  is  not  the  liquor  of  the  gods.  This,  however,  may 
also  be  defended  by  metaphor. 

Thus,  again,  artificers  in  iron  are  called  Xa^tc,  literally,  braz- 
iers. Of  this  kind  is  the  expression  of  the  poet, —  Kv^c  veoremrou 
Kaa<nripo:o. 

7.  When  a  word,  in  any  passage,  appears  to  express  a  contra- 
diction, we  must  consider  in  how  many  different  senses  it  may 
there  be  taken.      Here,  for  instance :  — 

—  tt]   rp   e'(T-(£TO  ^dXneov   ^YX0S  — 
There  stuck  the  lance. — Pope. 

the  meaning  is,  was  stopped  only,  or  repelled. 

Of  how  many  different  senses  a  word  is  capable  may  best  be 
discovered  by  considering  the  different  senses  that  are  opposed 
to  it. 

We  may  also  say,  with  Glauco,  that  some  critics  first  take 
things  for  granted  without  foundation,  and  then  argue  from  these 
previous  decisions  of  their  own;  and,  having  once  pronounced 
their  judgment,  condemn,  as  an  inconsistence,  whatever  is  con- 
trary to  their  preconceived  opinion.  Of  this  kind  is  the  cavil  of 
the  critics  concerning  Icarius.  Taking  it  for  granted  that  he  was 
a  Lacedaemonian,  they  thence  infer  the  absurdity  of  supposing 
Telemachus  not  to  have  seen  him  when  he  went  to  Lacedaemon. 
But,  perhaps,  what  the  Cephalenians  say  may  be  the  truth.  They 
assert  that  the  wife  of  Ulysses  was  of  their  country,  and  that 
the  name  of  her  father  was  not  Icarius,  but  Icadius.  The  objec- 
tion itself,  therefore,  is  probably  founded  on  a  mistake. 


ARISTOTLE  225 

The  impossible,  in  general,  is  to  be  justified  by  referring, 
either  to  the  end  of  poetry  itself,  or  to  what  is  best,  or  to 
opinion. 

For,  with  respect  to  poetry,  impossibilities,  rendered  probable, 
are  preferable  to  things  improbable,  though  possible. 

With  respect  also  to  what  is  best,  the  imitations  of  poetry 
should  resemble  the  paintings  of  Zeuxis;  the  example  should  be 
more  perfect  than  nature. 

To  opinion,  or  what  is  commonly  said  to  be,  may  be  referred 
even  such  things  as  are  improbable  and  absurd;  and  it  may  also 
be  said  that  events  of  that  kind  are,  sometimes,  not  really  im- 
probable; since  (<  it  is  probable  that  many  things  should  happen 
contrary  to  probability." 

When  things  are  said  which  appear  to  be  contradictory,  we 
must  examine  them  as  we  do  in  logical  confutation:  whether 
the  same  thing  be  spoken  of;  whether  in  the  same  respect,  and 
in  the  same  sense. 

Improbability,  and  vicious  manners,  when  excused  by  no  ne- 
cessity, are  just  objects  of  critical  censure.  Such  is  the  improba- 
bility in  the  "iEgeus"  of  Euripides,  and  the  vicious  character  of 
Menelaus  in  his  <(  Orestes. w 

Thus,  the  sources  from  which  the  critics  draw  their  objections 
are  five:  they  object  to  things  as  impossible,  or  improbable,  or 
of  immoral  tendency,  or  contradictory,  or  contrary  to  technical 
accuracy.  The  answers,  which  are  twelve  in  number,  may  be 
deduced  from  what  has  been  said. 


Part  V 

OF  THE  SUPERIORITY  OF  TRAGIC  TO  EPIC  POETRY 

It  may  be  inquired,  further,  which  of  the  two  imitations,  the 
epic,  or  the  tragic,  deserves  the  preference. 

If  that  which  is  the  least  vulgar,  or  popular,  of  the  two,  be 
the  best,  and  that  be  such  which  is  calculated  for  the  better  sort 
of  spectators  —  the  imitation  which  extends  to  every  circumstance 
must,  evidently,  be  the  most  vulgar,  or  popular;  for  there  the 
imitators  have  recourse  to  every  kind  of  motion  and  gesticula- 
tion, as  if  the  audience,  without  the  aid  of  action,  were  incapable 
of  understanding  them;  like  bad  flute-players,  who  whirl  them- 
selves round  when  they  would  imitate  the  motion  of  the  discus, 
1— 15 


226  ARISTOTLE 

and  pull  the  coryphaeus  when  Scylla  is  the  subject.  Such  is 
tragedy.  It  may  also  be  compared  to  what  the  modern  actors 
are  in  the  estimation  of  their  predecessors;  for  Myniscus  used  to 
call  Callipides,  on  account  of  his  intemperate  action,  the  ape; 
and  Tyndarus  was  censured  on  the  same  account.  What  these 
performers  are  with  respect  to  their  predecessors,  the  tragic  imi- 
tation, when  entire,  is  to  the  epic.  The  latter,  then,  it  is  urged, 
addresses  itself  to  hearers  of  the  better  sort,  to  whom  the  addition 
of  gesture  is  superfluous:  but  tragedy  is  for  the  people;  and 
being,  therefore,  the  most  vulgar  kind  of  imitation,  is  evidently 
the  inferior. 

But  now,  in  the  first  place,  this  censure  falls,  not  upon  the 
poet's  art,  but  upon  that  of  the  actor;  for  the  gesticulation  may 
be  equally  labored  in  the  recitation  of  an  epic  poem,  as  it  was 
by  Sosistratus;    and  in  singing,  as  by  Mnasitheus,  the  Opuntian. 

Again,  all  gesticulation  is  not  to  be  condemned;  since  even 
all  dancing  is  not,  but  such  only  as  is  unbecoming — such  as 
was  objected  to  Callipides,  and  is  now  objected  to  others,  whose 
gestures  resemble  those  of  immodest  women. 

Further,  tragedy,  as  well  as  the  epic,  is  capable  of  produc- 
ing its  effect  even  without  action;  we  can  judge  of  it  perfectly 
by  reading.  If,  then,  in  other  respects,  tragedy  be  superior,  it  is 
sufficient  that  the  fault  here  objected  is  not  essential  to  it. 

Tragedy  has  the  advantage  in  the  following  respects:  It 
possesses  all  that  is  possessed  by  the  epic;  it  might  even  adopt 
its  metre:  and  to  this  it  makes  no  inconsiderable  addition  in  the 
music  and  the  decoration;  by  the  latter  of  which  the  illusion  is 
heightened,  and  the  pleasure  arising  from  the  action  is  rendered 
more  sensible  and  striking. 

It  has  the  advantage  of  greater  clearness  and  distinctness  of 
impression,  as  well  in  reading  as  in  representation. 

It  has  also  that  of  attaining  the  end  of  its  imitation  in  a 
shorter  compass;  for  the  effect  is  more  pleasurable  when  pro- 
duced by  a  short  and  close  series  of  impressions  than  when 
weakened  by  diffusion  through  a  long  extent  of  time,  as  the 
((  (Edipus  B  of  Sophocles,  for  example,  would  be  if  it  were  drawn 
out  to  the  length  of  the  « Iliad. » 

Further,  there  is  less  unity  in  all  epic  imitation,  as  appears 
from  this  —  that  any  epic  poem  will  furnish  matter  for  several 
tragedies.  For,  supposing  the  poet  to  choose  a  fable  strictly  one, 
the  consequence  must  be  either  that  his  poem,  if  proportionably 


ARISTOTLE  227 

contracted,  will  appear  curtailed  and  defective,  or,  if  extended  to 
the  usual  length,  will  become  weak,  and,  as  it  were,  diluted.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  we  suppose  him  to  employ  several  fables  — 
that  is,  a  fable  composed  of  several  actions  —  his  imitation  is  no 
longer  strictly  one.  The  (<  Iliad, M  for  example,  and  the  (<  Odyssey  w 
contain  many  such  subordinate  parts,  each  of  which  has  a  certain 
magnitude  and  unity  of  its  own;  yet  is  the  construction  of  those 
poems  as  perfect  and  as  nearly  approaching  to  the  imitation  of  a 
single  action,  as  possible. 

If,  then,  tragedy  be  superior  to  the  epic  in  all  these  respects, 
and  also  in  the  peculiar  end  at  which  it  aims  (for  each  species 
ought  to  afford,  not  any  sort  of  pleasure  indiscriminately,  but 
such  only  as  has  been  pointed  out),  it  evidently  follows  that 
tragedy,  as  it  attains  more  effectually  the  end  of  the  art  itself, 
must  deserve  the  preference. 

And  thus  much  concerning  tragic  and  epic  poetry  in  general 
and  their  several  species,  the  number  and  the  differences  of  their 
parts,  the  causes  of  their  beauties  and  their  defects,  the  censures 
of  critics,  and  the  principles  on  which  they  are  to  be  answered. 

Complete.     Translated  by  Thomas  Twining. 


THE   DISPOSITIONS   CONSEQUENT   ON  WEALTH 

Any  one,  without  any  great  penetration,  may  distinguish  the 
dispositions  consequent  on  wealth;  for  (its  possessors)  are 
insolent  and  overbearing,  from  being  tainted  in  a  certain 
way  by  the  getting  of  their  wealth.  For  they  are  affected  as 
though  they  possessed  every  good;  since  wealth  is  a  sort  of  stand- 
ard of  the  worth  of  other  things;  whence  everything  seems  to 
be  purchasable  by  it.  And  they  are  affectedly  delicate  and 
purse-proud;  they  are  thus  delicate  on  account  of  their  luxurious 
lives,  and  the  display  they  make  of  their  prosperity.  They  are 
purse-proud,  and  violate  the  rules  of  good  breeding,  from  the 
circumstance  that  every  one  is  wont  to  dwell  upon  that  which  is 
beloved  and  admired  by  him,  and  because  they  think  that  others 
are  emulous  of  that,  of  which  they  are  themselves.  But  at  the 
same  time  they  are  thus  affected  reasonably  enough;  for  many 
are  they  who  need  the  aid  of  men  of  property.  Whence,  too, 
that  remark  of  Simonides  addressed  to  the  wife  of  Hiero  respect- 
ing the  wealthy  and  the  wise;    for  when   she  asked  him  whether 


228  ARISTOTLE 

it  were  better  to  have  been  born  wealthy  or  wise,  he  replied, 
wealthy;  for,  he  said,  he  used  to  see  the  wise  hanging  on  at  the 
doors  of  the  wealthy.  And  (it  is  a  characteristic  of  the  rich) 
that  they  esteem  themselves  worthy  of  being  in  office,  for  they 
consider  themselves  possessed  of  that  on  account  of  which  they 
are  entitled  to  be  in  office.  And,  in  a  word,  the  disposition  of 
the  rich  is  that  of  a  fool  amid  prosperity. 

However,  the  dispositions  of  those  who  are  but  lately  rich, 
and  of  those  who  have  been  so  from  of  old,  are  different;  inas- 
much as  those  who  have  recently  become  rich  have  all  these 
faults  in  a  greater  and  a  worse  degree;  for  the  having  recently 
become  rich  is  as  it  were  an  inexpertness  in  wealth.  And  they 
are  guilty  of  offenses,  not  of  a  malicious  nature,  but  such  as  are 
either  offenses  of  contumely  or  intemperance. 

Chapter  XVI  of  the  treatise  on  (( Rhetoric. » 


THE   DISPOSITIONS   OF   MEN   IN    POWER,  AND   OF  THE 

FORTUNATE 

And  in  the  same  way  on  the  subject  of  power,  the  most  strik- 
ing almost  of  its  dispositions  are  evident;  for  of  these 
power  has  some  in  common  with  wealth,  and  others  which 
are  better.  For  men  in  power  are  more  ambitious  and  more 
manly  in  their  dispositions  than  the  wealthy;  from  their  aiming 
at  all  duties  whatsoever,  which  from  their  power  they  have  the 
means  of  discharging.  And  they  are  less  given  to  trifling,  be- 
cause, from  a  necessity  of  looking  carefully  to  their  power,  they 
are  constrained  to  a  diligent  attention.  And  they  comport  them- 
selves with  a  dignity  which  is  conciliatory  rather  than  repulsive; 
for  their  claims  for  dignity  render  them  more  conspicuous;  on 
which  account,  they  bear  themselves  moderately:  but  conciliatory 
dignity  is  a  softened  and  graceful  sedateness.  And,  if  they  do 
transgress  the  bounds  of  right,  it  is  not  in  small  points,  but  in 
those  which  are  of  importance,  that  they  are  guilty. 

But  good  fortune,  according  to  its  constituents,  is  of  the  dis- 
position of  the  states  which  have  been  described;  since  those 
which  appear  to  be  the  greatest  instances  of  good  fortune  resolve 
themselves  ultimately  into  these  states:  and,  besides  these,  to  the 
excellence  of  one's  progeny,  and  to  personal  advantages.  But 
men   are   usually  more    overbearing    and   inconsiderate   in  conse- 


ARISTOTLE  229 

qucncc  of  prosperity.  But  one  disposition,  and  that  most  excel- 
lent, is  a  concomitant  of  good  fortune,  viz.,  that  the  fortunate  are 
lovers  of  the  gods,  and  are  disposed  toward  the  Deity  with  a  sort 
of  confidence,  in  consequence  of  the  goods  which  have  accrued  to 
them  from  fortune. 

The  subject,  then,  of  the  dispositions  as  they  conform  to  age 
and  to  fortune  has  been  discussed;  for  from  the  opposites  of  my 
remarks  the  opposite  subjects  will  be  evident;  the  subject,  for 
example,  of  the  disposition    of  a  poor,  or  unfortunate   person,  or 

of  one  out  of  power. 

Chapter  XVII  of  the  treatise  on  «Rhetoric.» 


230 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

(1822-1888) 

js  the  exponent  of  the  idea  of  (<  Sweetness  and  Light B  as 
qualities  of  the  cultured  intellect,  Matthew  Arnold  occupied 
a  distinctive  place  in  the  literature  of  his  generation,  and 
it  is  probable  that  much  of  what  he  has  written  will  survive  even 
after  many  such  marked  changes  of  taste  as  have  already  taken 
place.  He  represented  the  realities  of  that  high  intellectual  refine- 
ment to  which  some  of  his  imitators  had  no  other  title  than  that 
given  them  by  their  desire  to  be  credited  with  it.  In  the  generation 
to  which  he  belonged  English  aristocratic  liberalism  showed  itself 
ineffective  to  deal  with  the  rapidly  accumulating  problems  of  civiliza- 
tion. The  conservatism  which  means  (<  holding  its  own  and  other 
people's  also"  under  — 

<(The  good  old  rule,  the  simple  plan, 
That  he  can  take  who  has  the  power 
And  he  can  keep  who  can,w 

was  never  unequal  to  its  opportunities.  But  when  for  aristocratic 
liberalism,  opportunity  meant  the  sacrifice  of  its  own  individual  and 
class  privileges,  the  closing  years  of  the  century  show  nothing  but 
hesitation  and  vacillation,  the  longing  for  progress  and  the  lack 
of  courage  to  advance,  which  expresses  itself  in  the  sadness  of  the 
highest  intellect  of  the  English  literature  of  this  period.  The  whole 
aesthetic  movement,  with  its  idea  that  the  world  can  be  saved  by  the 
sweetness  of  those  high  minds  whose  culture  separates  them  from 
the  rest,  seems  to  be  a  reaction  from  politics,  due  to  the  indecision 
of  great  political  leaders  who,  when  trusted  with  power,  feared  to  use 
it  to  carry  out  what  they  had  advocated  in  opposition.  Even  when 
he  is  most  the  poet  and  essayist,  Matthew  Arnold  is  still  the  sociolo- 
gist, the  student  of  the  fundamental  principles  of  society.  The  sad- 
ness which  underlies  his  work,  prose  as  well  as  verse,  and  develops 
itself  in  the  sudden  antithesis  of  his  exquisite:  — 

(<  Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 
But  never  a  spray  of  yew; 
In  quiet  she  reposes  — 
Ah,  would  that  I  did  too ! » 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD  231 

—  this  and  the  protest  against  <(  Philistinism w  are  equally  symptoms  of 
discontent,  with  conditions  out  of  which  were  soon  to  be  developed 
the  rude  and  vigorous  vulgarity  of  that  middle-class  Toryism  which 
thrusts  itself  forward  with  its  insulting  and  Philistine  question,  ad- 
dressed to  the  ghosts  of  Tomlinsonian  culture:  — 

«Ye  have  read,  ye  have  heard,  ye  have  thought,  God  wot,  and  the  tale  is  yet 
to  run ! 
By  the  worth  of  the  body  that  once  ye   had,  give  answer:    What  have  ye 
done  ? B 

Perhaps  the  study  of  Homer,  iEschylus,  and  Dante  may  yet  pro- 
duce in  England  a  Winkelried  in  literature  who  will  give  a  Winkel- 
ried's  answer  to  that  question,  but  the  Shelleys  and  Byrons  who  died 
expatriated  and  in  disgrace  in  the  first  half  of  the  century  left  no 
successors  in  the  second  half.  We  had  instead  the  melancholy  Ten- 
nyson at  the  Court  of  Arthur,  and  the  saddened  Arnold  at  Athens  in 
the  time  of  Pericles, — both  representatives  of  the  ineffectual  protest 
of  poetic  souls  against  an  environment  they  could  not  control. 

The  son  of  the  celebrated  Doctor  Arnold  of  Rugby,  Matthew  Ar- 
nold was  born  at  Laleham,  December  24th,  1822.  Graduating  at  Ox- 
ford in  1844,  he  held  the  professorship  of  Poetry  there  from  1857  to 
1867,  after  having  served  from  185 1  to  1867  as  Government  Inspector 
of  Schools.  In  1883-84  he  lectured  in  the  United  States,  and,  on  his 
return  to  England,  showed  that  the  intellectual  exclusiveness  to  which 
he  tended  did  not  make  him  unfriendly  to  Republican  institutions,  or 
hopeless  of  a  government  by  the  masses  —  who,  according  to  his  view, 
if  incapable  of  saving  themselves,  were  to  be  saved  nevertheless  by 
a  <(  remnant"  of  men  of  high  intellect.  As  a  poet,  Arnold  is  at  his 
best  in  his  lyrics,  some  of  which  are  unsurpassed  in  English.  The 
style  of  his  essays  is  a  model  of  highly  polished  smoothness.  He 
died  in  Liverpool,  April  15th,  1888.  W.  V.  B. 


A   FINAL  WORD   ON  AMERICA 

Sir  Henry  Maine,  in  an  admirable  essay  which,  though  not 
signed,  betrays  him  for  its  author  by  its  rare  and  character- 
istic qualities  of  mind  and  style  —  Sir  Henry  Maine  in  the 
Quarterly  Review  adopts  and  often  reiterates  a  phrase  of  M. 
Scherer,  to  the  effect  that  "democracy  is  only  a  form  of  govern- 
ment. w  He  holds  up  to  ridicule  a  sentence  of  Mr.  Bancroft's 
K  History, w  in  which  the  American  democracy  is  told  that  its  as- 
cent to  power   <c  proceeded  as  uniformly  and  majestically  as   the 


232  MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

laws  of  being,  and  was  as  certain  as  the  degrees  of  eternity.8 
Let  us  be  willing  to  give  Sir  Henry  Maine  his  way,  and  to  allow 
no  magnificent  claim  of  this  kind  on  behalf  of  the  American 
democracy.  Let  us  treat  as  not  more  solid  the  assertion  in  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  that  (<  all  men  are  created  equal,  are 
endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain  inalienable  rights,  among 
them  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness.*  Let  us  concede 
that  these  natural  rights  are  a  figment;  that  chance  and  circum- 
stance, as  much  as  deliberate  foresight  and  design,  have  brought 
the  United  States  into  their  present  condition;  that  moreover  the 
British  rule  which  they  threw  off  was  not  the  rule  of  oppressors 
and  tyrants  which  declaimers  suppose;  and  that  the  merit  of  the 
Americans  was  not  that  of  oppressed  men  rising  against  tyrants, 
but  rather  of  sensible  young  people  getting  rid  of  stupid  and 
overweening  guardians  who  misunderstood  and  mismanaged  them. 
All  this  let  us  concede,  if  we  will;  but  in  conceding  it  let  us 
not  lose  sight  of  the  really  important  point,  which  is  this:  that 
their  institutions  do  in  fact  suit  the  people  of  the  United  States 
so  well,  and  that  from  this  suitableness  they  do  derive  so  much 
actual  benefit.  As  one  watches  the  play  of  their  institutions,  the 
image  suggests  itself  to  one's  mind  of  a  man  in  a  suit  of  clothes 
which  fits  him  to  perfection,  leaving  all  his  movements  unim- 
peded and  easy.  It  is  loose  where  it  ought  to  be  loose,  and  it 
sits  close  where  its  sitting  close  is  an  advantage.  The  central 
government  of  the  United  States  keeps  in  its  own  hands  those 
functions  which,  if  the  nation  is  to  have  real  unity,  ought  to  be 
kept  there;  those  functions  it  takes  to  itself  and  no  others.  The 
State  governments  and  the  municipal  governments  provide  peo- 
ple with  the  fullest  liberty  of  managing  their  own  affairs,  and 
afford,  besides,  a  constant  and  invaluable  school  of  practical 
experience.  This  wonderful  suit  of  clothes,  again  (to  recur  to 
our  image),  is  found  also  to  adapt  itself  naturally  to  the  wearer's 
growth,  and  to  admit  of  all  enlargements  as  they  successively 
arise.  I  speak  of  the  state  of  things  since  the  suppression  of 
slavery,  of  the  state  of  things  which  meets  a  spectator's  eye  at 
the  present  time  in  America.  There  are  points  in  which  the  in- 
stitutions of  the  United  States  may  call  forth  criticism.  One 
observer  may  think  that  it  would  be  well  if  the  President's  term 
of  office  were  longer,  if  his  ministers  sat  in  Congress  or  must 
possess  the  confidence  of  Congress.  Another  observer  may  say 
that   the  marriage   laws  for   the   whole   nation   ought  to  be   fixed 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD  233 

by  Congress,  and  not  to  vary  at  the  will  of  the  legislatures  of 
the  several  States.  I  myself  was  much  struck  with  the  incon- 
venience of  not  allowing  a  man  to  sit  in  Congress  except  for  his 
own  district;  a  man  like  Wendell  Phillips  was  thus  excluded,  be- 
cause Boston  would  not  return  him.  It  is  as  if  Mr.  Bright  could 
have  no  other  constituency  open  to  him  if  Rochdale  would  not  send 
him  to  Parliament.  But  all  these  are  really  questions  of  machinery 
(to  use  my  own  term),  and  ought  not  so  to  engage  our  attention 
as  to  prevent  our  seeing  that  the  capital  fact  as  to  the  institutions 
of  the  United  States  is  this:  their  suitableness  to  the  American 
people  and  their  natural  and  easy  working.  If  we  are  not  to  be 
allowed  to  say,  with  Mr.  Beecher,  that  this  people  has  <(  a  genius 
for  the  organization  of  States,"  then  at  all  events  we  must  admit 
that  in  its  own  organization  it  has  enjoyed  the  most  signal  good 

fortune. 

From  an  essay  in  the  Nineteenth  Century. 


B 


THE   REAL   BURNS 

y  his  English  poetry  Burns  in  general  belongs  to  the  eight- 
eenth century,  and  has  little  importance  for  us. 

(<  Mark  ruffian  Violence,  distain'd  with  crimes, 
Rousing  elate  in  these  degenerate  times; 
View  unsuspecting  Innocence  a  prey, 
'  As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the  erring  way ; 
While  subtle  Litigation's  pliant  tongue 
The  lifeblood  equal  sucks  of  Right  and  Wrong!0 

Evidently  this  is  not  the  real  Burns,  or  his  name  and  fame 
would  have  disappeared  long  ago.  Nor  is  Clarinda's  love  poet, 
Sylvander,  the  real  Burns  either.  But  he  tells  us  himself:  (< These 
English  songs  gravel  me  to  death.  I  have  not  the  command  of 
the  language  that  I  have  of  my  native  tongue.  In  fact,  I  think 
that  my  ideas  are  more  barren  in  English  than  in  Scotch.  I 
have  been  at  c  Duncan  Gray  )  to  dress  it  in  English,  but  all  I  can 
do  is  desperately  stupid. w  We  English  turn  naturally,  in  Burns, 
to  the  poems  in  our  own  language,  because  we  can  read  them 
easily;  but  in  those  poems  we  have  not  the  real  Burns. 

The   real    Burns    is    of    course   in    his    Scotch   poems.     Let  us 
boldly  say  that  of  much  of  this  poetry,  a  poetry  dealing  perpetu- 


234  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

ally  with  Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch  manners,  a 
Scotchman's  estimate  is  apt  to  be  personal.  A  Scotchman  is 
used  to  this  world  of  Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch 
manners;  he  has  a  tenderness  for  it;  he  meets  its  poet  half  way. 
In  this  tender  mood  he  reads  pieces  like  the  (<  Holy  Fair *  or 
c<  Hallowe'en. w  But  this  world  of  Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion, 
and  Scotch  manners  is  against  a  poet,  not  for  him,  when  it  is 
not  a  partial  countryman  who  reads  him;  for  in  itself  it  is  not  a 
beautiful  world,  and  no  one  can  deny  that  it  is  of  advantage  to 
a  poet  to  deal  with  a  beautiful  world.  Burns's  world  of  Scotch 
drink,  Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch  manners  is  often  a  harsh,  a 
sordid,  a  repulsive  world;  even  the  world  of  his  <(  Cotter's  Satur- 
day Night  *  is  not  a  beautiful  world.  No  doubt  a  poet's  criticism 
of  life  may  have  such  truth  and  power  that  it  triumphs  over  its 
world  and  delights  us.  Burns  may  triumph  over  his  world;  often 
he  does  triumph  over  his  world,  but  let  us  observe  how  and 
where.  Burns  is  the  first  case  we  have  had  where  the  bias  of 
the  personal  estimate  tends  to  mislead;  let  us  look  at  him  closely, 
he  can  bear  it. 

Many  of  his  admirers  will   tell  us  that  we  have    Burns,  con- 
vivial, genuine,  delightful,  here:  — 

<(  Leeze  me  on  drink !   it  gies  us  tnair 
Than  either  school  or  college ; 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair, 

It  pangs  us  fou  o'  knowledge. 
Be't  whisky  gill  or  penny  wheep 

Or  ony  stronger  potion, 
It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep, 
To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day." 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  Burns,  and  it  is 
unsatisfactory,  not  because  it  is  bacchanalian  poetry,  but  because 
it  has  not  that  accent  of  sincerity  which  bacchanalian  poetry,  to 
do  it  justice,  very  often  has.  There  is  something  in  it  of  bra- 
vado, something  which  makes  us  feel  that  we  have  not  the  man 
speaking  to  us  with  his  real  voice;  something,  therefore,  poetic- 
ally unsound. 

With   still   more  confidence  will  his  admirers  tell  us   that   we 
have  the  genuine   Burns,  the  great  poet,  when  his  strain  asserts 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD  235 

the  independence,  equality,  dignity,  of  men,  as  in  the  famous 
song  c<  For  a'  that  and  a'  that  M :  — 

<(  A  prince  can  mak'  a  belted  knight, 
A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense  and  pride  o'  worth 
Are  higher  ranks  that  a'  that.w 

Here  they  find  his  grand,  genuine  touches;  and  still  more,  when 
this  puissant  genius,  who  so  often  set  morality  at  defiance,  falls 
moralizing :  — 

(<The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed  love 
Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Tho'  naething  should  divulge  it. 
I  waive  the  quantum  o'  the  sin, 

The  hazard  o'  concealing, 
But  och!  it  hardens  a'  within, 
And  petrifies  the  feeling.* 

Or  in  a  higher  strain:  — 

<(Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us; 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone; 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias. 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. » 

Or  in  a  better  strain  yet,  a  strain,  his  admirers  will  say,  unsur- 
passable :  — 

(<To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 
To  weans  and  wife, 
That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life." 

There  is  criticism  of  life  for  you,  the  admirers  of  Burns  will  say 
to  us;  there  is  the  application  of  ideas  to  life!  There  is,  un- 
doubtedly.    The  doctrine  of  the  last-quoted  lines  coincides  almost 


236  MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

exactly  with  what  was  the  aim  and  end,  Xenophon  tells  us,  of 
all  the  teaching  of  Socrates.  And  the  application  is  a  powerful 
one ;  made  by  a  man  of  vigorous  understanding,  and  (need  I 
say?)  a  master  of  language. 

But  for  supreme  poetical  success  more  is  required  than  the 
powerful  application  of  ideas  to  life;  it  must  be  an  application 
under  the  conditions  fixed  by  the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic 
beauty.  Those  laws  fix  as  an  essential  condition,  in  the  poet's 
treatment  of  such  matters  as  are  here  in  question,  high  serious- 
ness—  the  high  seriousness  which  comes  from  absolute  sincerity. 
The  accent  of  high  seriousness,  born  of  absolute  sincerity,  is  what 
gives  to  such  verse  as 

<(  In  la  sua  volontade  e  nostra  pace     .     .     . B 

to  such  criticism  of  life  as  Dante's  its  power.  Is  this  accent  felt 
in  the  passages  which  I  have  been  quoting  from  Burns  ?  Surely 
not;  surely,  if  our  sense  is  quick,  we  must  perceive  that  we  have 
not  in  those  passages  a  voice  from  the  very  inmost  soul  of  the 
genuine  Burns;  he  is  not  speaking  to  us  from  these  depths,  he 
is  more  or  less  preaching.  And  the  compensation  for  admiring 
such  passages  less,  from  missing  the  perfect  poetic  accent  in 
them,  will  be  that  we  shall  admire  more  the  poetry  where  that 
accent  is  found. 

No;  Burns,  like  Chaucer,  comes  short  of  the  high  seriousness 
of  the  great  classics,  and  the  virtue  of  matter  and  manner  which 
goes  with  that  high  seriousness  is  wanting  to  his  work.  At  mo- 
ments he  touches  it  in  a  profound  and  passionate  melancholy,  as 
in  those  four  immortal  lines  taken  by  Byron  as  a  motto  for 
<(  The  Giaour. )y  but  which  have  in  them  a  depth  of  poetic  quality 
such  as  resides  in  no  verse  of  Byron's  own :  — 

<(  Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met,  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. >} 

But  a  whole  poem  of  that  quality  Burns  cannot  make;  the  rest, 
in  the  (<  Farewell  to  Nancy, w  is  verbiage. 

We  arrive  best  at  the  real  estimate  of  Burns,  I  think,  by  con- 
ceiving his  work  as  having  truth  of  matter  and  truth  of  manner, 
but  not  the  accent  or  the  poetic  virtue  of   the  highest   masters. 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD  237 

His  genuine  criticism  of  life,  when  the  sheer  poet  in  him  speaks, 
is  ironic;    it  is  not:  — 

w  Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 
These  woes  of  mine  fulfil, 
Here  firm  I  rest,  they  must  be  best 
Because  they  are  Thy  will !  ° 

It  is  far  rather:  "Whistle  owre  the  lave  o't!w  Yet  we  may  say 
of  him  as  of  Chaucer,  that  of  life  and  the  world,  as  they  come 
before  him,  his  view  is  large,  free,  shrewd,  benignant  —  truly 
poetic,  therefore;  and  his  manner  of  rendering  what  he  sees  is 
to  match.  But  we  must  note,  at  the  same  time,  his  great  differ- 
ence from  Chaucer.  The  freedom  of  Chaucer  is  heightened,  in 
Burns,  by  a  fiery,  reckless  energy;  the  benignity  of  Chaucer 
deepens,  in  Burns,  into  an  overwhelming  sense  of  the  pathos  of 
things  —  of  the  pathos  of  human  nature,  the  pathos,  also,  of  non- 
human  nature.  Instead  of  the  fluidity  of  Chaucer's  manner,  the 
manner  of  Burns  has  spring,  bounding  swiftness.  Burns  is  by 
far  the  greater  force,  though  he  has  perhaps  less  charm.  The 
world  of  Chaucer  is  fairer,  richer,  more  significant  than  that  of 
Burns;  but  when  the  largeness  and  freedom  of  Burns  get  full 
sweep,  as  in  <(Tam  o'  Shanter,"  or  still  more  in  that  puissant 
and  splendid  production,  (<  The  Jolly  Beggars, w  his  world  may 
be  what  it  will,  his  poetic  genius  triumphs  over  it.  In  the  world 
of  (( The  Jolly  Beggars w  there  is  more  than  hideousness  and 
squalor,  there  is  bestiality;  yet  the  piece  is  a  superb  poetic  suc- 
cess. It  has  a  breadth,  truth,  and  power  which  make  the  famous 
scene  in  Auerbach's  cellar,  of  Goethe's  <(  Faust, w  seem  artificial 
and  tame  beside  it,  and  which  are  only  matched  by  Shakespeare 
and  Aristophanes. 

Here,  where  his  largeness  and  freedom  serve  him  so  admira- 
bly, and  also  in  those  poems  and  songs,  where  to  shrewdness  he 
adds  infinite  archness  and  wit,  and  to  benignity  infinite  pathos, 
where  his  manner  is  flawless,  and  a  perfect  poetic  whole  is  the 
result  —  in  things  like  the  address  to  the  mouse  whose  home  he 
had  ruined,  in  things  like  (( Duncan  Gray,"  (<  Tarn  Glen,w  (<  Whis- 
tle, and  I'll  Come  to  You,  My  Lad,w  «  Auld  Lang  Syne  »  (the  list 
might  be  made  much  longer) — here  we  have  the  genuine  Burns, 
of  whom  the  real  estimate  must  be  high  indeed.  Not  a  classic, 
nor  with  the  excellent  axoudaiozT^  of  the  great  classics,  nor  with  a 
verse  rising   to   a  criticism   of   life    and  a  virtue  like  theirs;    but 


238  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

a  poet  with  thorough  truth  of  substance  and  an  answering  truth 
of  style,  giving  us  a  poetry  sound  to  the  core.  We  all  of  us 
have  a  leaning  toward  the  pathetic,  and  may  be  inclined  perhaps 
to  prize  Burns  most  for  his  touches  of  piercing,  sometimes  almost 
intolerable,  pathos;    for  verse  like: 

<(We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn 
From  mornin'  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 
Sin  auld  lang  syne    .     .     .w 

where  he  is  as  lovely  as  he  is  sound.  But  perhaps  it  is  by  the 
perfection  of  soundness  of  his  lighter  and  archer  masterpieces 
that  he  is  poetically  most  wholesome  for  us.  For  the  votary 
misled  by  a  personal  estimate  of  Shelley,  as  so  many  of  us 
have  been,  are,  and  will  be, —  of  that  beautiful  spirit  building  his 
many-colored  haze  of  words  and  images 

<(  Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane, w  — 

no  contact  can  be  wholesomer  than  the  contact  with  Burns  at  his 
archest  and  soundest.     Side  by  side  with  the 

(<  On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 
My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire, 
But  the  Earth  has  just  whispered  a  warning 
That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than  fire  * 

of  <(  Prometheus  Unbound, B  how  salutary,  how  very  salutary,  to 
place  this  from  <(  Tarn  Glen  w  :  — 

<(My  minnie  does  constantly  deave  me 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men ; 
They  natter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me; 
But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tarn  Glen  ? B 

But  we  enter  on  burning  ground  as  we  approach  the  poetry 
of  times  so  near  to  us,  poetry  like  that  of  Byron,  Shelley,  and 
Wordsworth,  of  which  the  estimates  are  so  often  not  only  per- 
sonal, but  personal  with  passion.  For  my  purpose,  it  is  enough 
to  have  taken  the  single  case  of  Burns,  the  first  poet  we  come  to 
of  whose  work  the  estimate  formed  is  evidently  apt  to  be  per- 
sonal, and  to  have  suggested  how  we  may  proceed,  using  the 
poetry  of  the  great  classics,  as  a  sort  of  touchstone,  to  correct 
this  estimate,  as  we  had  previously  corrected  by  the  same  means 
the  historic  estimate  where  we  met  with  it. 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD  239 


«  SWEETNESS  AND   LIGHT  » 


The  disparagers  of  culture  make  its  motive  curiosity;  some- 
times, indeed,  they  make  its  motive  mere  exclusiveness  and 
vanity.  The  culture  which  is  supposed  to  plume  itself  on 
a  smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin  is  a  culture  which  is  begotten 
by  nothing  so  intellectual  as  curiosity;  it  is  valued  either  out  of 
sheer  vanity  and  ignorance  or  else  as  an  engine  of  social  and 
class  distinction,  separating  its  holder,  like  a  badge  or  title,  from 
other  people  who  have  not  got  it.  No  serious  man  would  call  this 
culture,  or  attach  any  value  to  it,  as  culture  at  all.  To  find  the 
real  ground  for  the  very  different  estimate  which  serious  people 
will  set  upon  culture,  we  must  find  some  motive  for  culture  in 
the  terms  of  which  may  lie  a  real  ambiguity;  and  such  a  motive 
the  word  curiosity  gives  us. 

I  have  before  now  pointed  out  that  we  English  do  not,  like 
the  foreigners,  use  this  word  in  a  good  sense  as  well  as  in  a  bad 
sense.  With  us  the  word  is  always  used  in  a  somewhat  disap- 
proving sense.  A  liberal  and  intelligent  eagerness  about  the 
things  of  the  mind  may  be  meant  by  a  foreigner  when  he  speaks 
of  curiosity,  but  with  us  the  word  always  conveys  a  certain  no- 
tion of  frivolous  and  unedifying  activity.  In  the  Quarterly  Re- 
view, some  little  time  ago,  was  an  estimate  of  the  celebrated 
French  critic,  M.  Sainte-Beuve,  and  a  very  inadequate  estimate 
of  it  in  my  judgment  it  was.  And  its  inadequacy  consisted  chiefly 
in  this:  that  in  our  English  way  it  left  out  of  sight  the  double 
sense  really  involved  in  the  word  curiosity,  thinking  enough  was 
said  to  stamp  M.  Sainte-Beuve  with  blame,  if  it  was  said  that  he 
was  impelled  in  his  operations  as  a  critic  by  curiosity,  and  omit- 
ting either  to  perceive  that  M.  Sainte-Beuve  himself,  and  many 
other  people  with  him,  would  consider  that  this  was  praiseworthy 
and  not  blameworthy,  or  to  point  out  why  it  ought  really  to  be 
accounted  worthy  of  blame  and  not  of  praise.  For  as  there  is  a 
curiosity  about  intellectual  matters  which  is  futile,  and  merely 
a  disease,  so  there  is  certainly  a  curiosity, —  a  desire  after  the 
things  of  the  mind  simply  for  their  own  sakes  and  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  them  as  they  are, —  which  is,  in  an  intelligent 
being,  natural  and  laudable.  Nay,  and  the  very  desire  to  see 
things  as  they  are  implies  a  balance  and  regulation  of  mind 
which  is  not   often    attained    without    fruitful    effort,   and    which 


240  MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

is  the  very  opposite  of  the  blind  and  diseased  impulse  of  mind 
which  is  what  we  mean  to  blame  when  we  blame  curiosity. 
Montesquieu  says :  <(  The  first  motive  which  ought  to  impel  us  to 
study  is  the  desire  to  augment  the  excellence  of  our  nature,  and 
to  render  an  intelligent  being  yet  more  intelligent. w  This  is  the 
true  ground  to  assign  for  the  genuine  scientific  passion,  however 
manifested,  and  for  culture,  viewed  simply  as  a  fruit  of  this  pas- 
sion; and  it  is  a  worthy  ground,  even  though  we  let  the  term 
curiosity  stand  to  describe  it. 

But  there  is  of  culture  another  view,  in  which  not  solely  the 
scientific  passion,  the  sheer  desire  to  see  things  as  they  are,  nat- 
ural and  proper  in  an  intelligent  being,  appears  as  the  ground 
of  it.  There  is  a  view  in  which  all  the  love  of  our  neighbor,  the 
impulses  toward  action,  help,  and  beneficence,  the  desire  for 
removing  human  error,  clearing  human  confusion,  and  diminish- 
ing human  misery,  the  noble  aspiration  to  leave  the  world  better 
and  happier  than  we  found  it, —  motives  eminently  such  as  are 
called  social, —  come  in  as  part  of  the  grounds  of  culture,  and 
the  main  and  pre-eminent  part.  Culture  is  then  properly  de- 
scribed not  as  having  its  origin  in  curiosity,  but  as  having  its 
origin  in  the  love  of  perfection;  it  is  a  study  of  perfection.  It 
moves  by  the  force,  not  merely  or  primarily  of  the  scientific  pas- 
sion for  pure  knowledge,  but  also  of  the  moral  and  social  passion 
for  doing  good.  As,  in  the  first  view  of  it,  we  took  for  its  worthy 
motto  Montesquieu's  words :  <(  To  render  an  intelligent  being  yet 
more  intellieent !  w  so,  in  the  second  view  of  it,  there  is  no  bet- 
ter  motto  which  it  can  have  than  these  words  of  Bishop  Wilson: 
<c  To  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail !  B     .     .     . 

The  pursuit  of  perfection,  then,  is  the  pursuit  of  sweetness 
and  light.  He  who  works  for  sweetness  and  light  works  to 
make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail.  He  who  works  for 
machinery,  he  who  works  for  hatred,  works  only  for  confusion. 
Culture  looks  beyond  machinery,  culture  hates  hatred;  culture 
has  one  great  passion,  the  passion  for  sweetness  and  light.  It 
has  one  even  yet  greater!  —  the  passion  for  making  them  prevail. 
It  is  not  satisfied  till  we  all  come  to  a  perfect  man;  it  knows 
that  the  sweetness  and  light  of  the  few  must  be  imperfect  until 
the  raw  and  unkindled  masses  of  humanity  are  touched  with  sweet- 
ness and  light.  If  I  have  not  shrunk  from  saying  that  we  must 
work  for  sweetness  and  light,  so  neither  have  I  shrunk  from  say- 
ing that  we  must  have  a  broad  basis,  must  have  sweetness  and 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  241 

light  for  as  many  as  possible.  Again  and  again  I  have  insisted 
how  those  are  the  happy  moments  of  humanity,  how  those  are 
the  marking  epochs  of  a  people's  life,  how  those  are  the  flower- 
ing times  for  literature  and  art  and  all  the  creative  power  of 
genius,  when  there  is  a  national  glow  of  life  and  thought,  when 
the  whole  of  society  is  in  the  fullest  measure  permeated  by 
thought,  sensible  to  beauty,  intelligent  and  alive.  Only  it  must 
be  real  thought  and  real  beauty;  real  sweetness  and  real  light. 
Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  give  the  masses,  as  they  call  them, 
an  intellectual  food  prepared  and  adapted  in  the  way  they  think 
proper  for  the  actual  condition  of  the  masses.  The  ordinary 
popular  literature  is  an  example  of  this  way  of  working  on  the 
masses.  Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  indoctrinate  the  masses 
with  the  set  of  ideas  and  judgments  constituting  the  creed  of 
their  own  profession  or  party.  Our  religious  and  political  organ- 
izations give  an  example  of  this  way  of  working  on  the  masses. 
I  condemn  neither  way;  but  culture  works  differently.  It  does 
not  try  to  teach  down  to  the  level  of  inferior  classes;  it  does  not 
try  to  win  them  for  this  or  that  sect  of  its  own,  with  ready- 
made  judgments  and  watchwords.  It  seeks  to  do  away  with 
classes;  to  make  the  best  that  has  been  thought  and  known  in 
the  world  current  everywhere;  to  make  all  men  live  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  sweetness  and  light,  where  they  may  use  ideas,  as  it 
uses  them  itself,  freely,- — nourished,  and  not  bound  by  them. 
This  is  the  social  idea;  and  the  men  of  culture  are  the  true 
apostles  of  equality.  The  great  men  of  culture  are  those  who 
have  had  a  passion  for  diffusing,  for  making  prevail,  for  carrying 
from  one  end  of  society  to  the  other,  the  best  knowledge,  the 
best  ideas  of  their  time,  who  have  labored  to  divest  knowledge 
of  all  that  was  harsh,  uncouth,  difficult,  abstract,  professional,  ex- 
clusive; to  humanize  it;  to  make  it  efficient  outside  the  clique  of 
the  cultivated  and  learned,  yet  still  remaining  the  best  knowl- 
edge and  thought  of  the  time,  and  a  true  source,  therefore,  of 
sweetness  and  light.  Such  a  man  was  Abdlard  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  in  spite  of  all  his  imperfections;  and  thence  the  boundless 
emotion  and  enthusiasm  which  Abelard  excited.  Such  were  Les- 
sing  and  Herder  in  Germany,  at  the  end  of  the  last  century;  and 
their  services  to  Germany  were  in  this  way  inestimably  precious. 
Generations  will  pass,  and  literary  monuments  will  accumulate, 
and  works  far  more  perfect  than  the  works  of  Lessing  and 
Herder  will  be  produced  in  Germany;  and  yet  the  names  of 
1— 16 


242  MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

these  two  men  will  fill  a  German  with  a  reverence  and  enthusi- 
asm such  as  the  names  of  the  most  gifted  masters  will  hardly 
awaken.  And  why  ?  Because  they  humanized  knowledge ;  be- 
cause they  broadened  the  basis  of  life  and  intelligence;  because 
they  worked  powerfully  to  diffuse  the  sweetness  and  light,  to 
make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail.  With  Saint  Augustine 
they  said :  (<  Let  us  not  leave  thee  alone  to  make  in  the  secret  of 
thy  knowledge,  as  thou  didst  before  the  creation  of  the  firma- 
ment, the  division  of  light  from  darkness;  let  the  children  of 
thy  spirit,  placed  in  their  firmament,  make  their  light  shine  upon 
the  earth,  mark  the  division  of  night  and  day,  and  announce  the 
revolution  of  the  times;  for  the  old  order  is  passed,  and  the  new 
arises;  the  night  is  spent,  the  day  is  come  forth;  and  thou  shalt 
crown  the  year  with  thy  blessing,  when  thou  shalt  send  forth 
laborers  into  thy  harvest  sown  by  other  hands  than  theirs;  when 
thou  shalt  send  forth  new  laborers  to  new  seedtimes,  whereof 
the  harvest  shall  be  not  yet. )} 

From  essays  on  «  Culture  »  and  (< Anarchy.  * 


243 


ARRIAN 

(C9S-C.  1 80  A.  D.) 

[he  <(  Enchiridion"  of  Epictetus  for  which  the  modern  world  is 
indebted  to  Arrian  (L.  Flavius  Arrianus),  is  one  of  the  most 
notable  prose  works  of  antiquity.  The  text  here  given  com- 
plete is  that  of  Long.  As  a  handbook  of  the  teachings  of  Epictetus, 
the  (<  Enchiridion  *  has  been  a  source  of  recreation  and  solace  to  the 
workers  and  thinkers  of  the  world  ever  since  it  was  written.  It  was 
long  regarded  as  the  best  compendium  of  moral  philosophy,  and  it  is 
said  that  even  a  man  so  far  removed  from  scholasticism  as  Capt. 
John  Smith  carried  it  in  his  pocket  during  his  voyages.  Arrian  was 
born  in  Nicomedia  about  95  A.  D.  In  136  A.  D.  he  was  appointed 
Governor  of  Cappadocia  by  the  Emperor  Hadrian,  and  he  held  several 
other  offices  of  dignity,  including  that  of  priest  of  Ceres  and  Proser- 
pine at  Nicomedia  where  he  died  c.  180.  He  is  the  author  of  a  his- 
tory of  Alexander's  Asiatic  conquests,  and,  in  addition  to  writing  the 
<(  Handbook  B  of  the  teachings  of  Epictetus,  he  also  reported  his  lec- 
tures, becoming  thus  the  only  authority  we  have  for  the  teachings  of 
that  great  Stoic. 


THE  «  ENCHIRIDION  » 


Of  things  some  are  in  our  power,  and  others  are  not.  In  our 
power  are  opinion  (utto^^),  movement  towards  a  thing 
(opp-yj),  desire,  aversion,  (k'xxXteis)  y  turning  from  a  thing;  and 
in  a  word,  whatever  are  our  acts.  Not  in  our  power  are  the 
body,  property,  reputation,  offices  (magisterial  power),  and,  in  a 
word,  whatever  are  not  our  own  acts.  And  the  things  in  our 
power  are  by  nature  free,  not  subject  to  restraint  or  hindrance; 
but  the  things  not  in  our  power  are  weak,  slavish,  subject  to  re- 
straint, in  the  power  of  others.  Remember  then,  that  if  you 
think  the  things  which  are  by  nature  slavish  to  be  free,  and  the 
things  which  are  in   the  power  of  others   to   be   your   own,  you 


244 


ARRIAN 


will  be  hindered,  you  will  lament,  you  will  be  disturbed,  you  will 
blame  both  gods  and  men;  but  if  you  think  that  only  which  is 
your  own  to  be  your  own,  and  if  you  think  that  what  is  an- 
other's, as  it  really  is,  belongs  to  another,  no  man  will  ever  com- 
pel you,  no  man  will  hinder  you,  you  will  never  blame  any  man, 
you  will  accuse  no  man,  you  will  do  nothing  involuntarily  (against 
your  will),  no  man  will  harm  you,  you  will  have  no  enemy,  for 
you  will  not  suffer  any  harm. 

If  then  you  desire  (aim  at)  such  great  things,  remember  that 
you  must  not  (attempt  to)  lay  hold  of  them  with  a  small  effort; 
but  you  must  leave  alone  some  things  entirely,  and  postpone 
others  for  the  present.  But  if  you  wish  for  these  things  also 
(such  great  things),  and  power  (office)  and  wealth,  perhaps  you 
will  not  gain  even  these  very  things  (power  and  wealth),  because 
you  aim  also  at  those  former  things  (such  great  things) ;  certainly 
you  will  fail  in  those  things  through  which  alone  happiness  and 
freedom  are  secured.  Straightway  then  practice  saying  to  every 
harsh  appearance:  You  are  an  appearance,  and  in  no  manner 
what  you  appear  to  be.  Then  examine  it  by  the  rules  which 
you  possess,  and  by  this  first  and  chiefly,  whether  it  relates  to 
the  things  which  are  in  our  power  or  to  things  which  are  not 
in  our  power;  and  if  it  relates  to  anything  which  is  not  in  our 
power,  be  ready  to  say  that  it  does  not  concern  you. 

II 

Remember  that  desire  contains  in  it  the  profession  (hope)  of 
obtaining  that  which  you  desire;  and  the  profession  (hope)  in 
aversion  (turning  from  a  thing)  is  that  you  will  not  fall  into  that 
which  you  attempt  to  avoid;  and  he  who  fails  in  his  desire  is 
unfortunate;  and  he  who  falls  into  that  which  he  would  avoid  is 
unhappy.  If  then  you  attempt  to  avoid  only  the  things  contrary 
to  nature  which  are  within  your  power,  you  will  not  be  involved 
in  any  of  the  things  which  you  would  avoid.  But  if  you  attempt 
to  avoid  disease,  or  death,  or  poverty,  you  will  be  unhappy.  Take 
away  then  aversion  from  all  things  which  are  not  in  our  power, 
and  transfer  it  to  the  things  contrary  to  nature  which  are  in  our 
power.  But  destroy  desire  completely  for  the  present.  For  if 
you  desire  anything  which  is  not  in  our  power,  you  must  be  un- 
fortunate ;  but  of  the  things  in  our  power,  and  which  it  would  be 
good  to  desire,  nothing  yet  is  before  you.      But  employ  only  the 


ARRIAN  245 

power  of  moving  towards  an  object  and  retiring  from  it;  and 
these  powers  indeed  only  slightly  and  with  exceptions  and  with 
remission. 

Ill 

In  everything  which  pleases  the  soul,  or  supplies  a  want,  or  is 
loved,  remember  to  add  this  to  the  (description,  notion) :  What  is 
the  nature  of  each  thing,  beginning  from  the  smallest  ?  If  you 
love  an  earthen  vessel,  say  it  is  an  earthen  vessel  which  you  love ; 
for  when  it  has  been  broken  you  will  not  be  disturbed.  If  you 
are  kissing  your  child  or  wife,  say  that  it  is  a  human  being  whom 
you  are  kissing,  for  when  the  wife  or  child  dies  you  will  not  be 
disturbed. 

IV 

When  you  are  going  to  take  in  hand  any  act,  remind  yourself 
what  kind  of  an  act  it  is.  If  you  are  going  to  bathe,  place  be- 
fore yourself  what  happens  in  the  bath ;  some  splashing  the 
water,  others  pushing  against  one  another,  others  abusing  one 
another,  and  some  stealing;  and  thus  with  more  safety  you  will 
undertake  the  matter,  if  you  say  to  yourself,  I  now  intend  to 
bathe,  and  to  maintain  my  will  in  a  manner  conformable  to  na- 
ture. And  so  you  will  do  in  every  act;  for  thus  if  any  hindrance 
to  bathing  shall  happen,  let  this  thought  be  ready.  It  was  not 
this  only  that  I  intended,  but  I  intended  also  to  maintain  my  will 
in  a  way  conformable  to  nature;  but  I  shall  not  maintain  it  so 
if  I  am  vexed  at  what  happens. 


V 

Men  are  disturbed  not  by  the  things  which  happen,  but  by 
the  opinions  about  the  things;  for  example,  death  is  nothing  ter- 
rible, for  if  it  were  it  would  have  seemed  so  to  Socrates;  for  the 
opinion  about  death  that  it  is  terrible,  is  the  terrible  thing.  When 
then  we  are  impeded,  or  disturbed,  or  grieved,  let  us  never  blame 
others,  but  ourselves — that  is,  our  opinions.  It  is  the  act  of  an 
ill-instructed  man  to  blame  others  for  his  own  bad  condition;  it 
is  the  act  of  one  who  has  begun  to  be  instructed,  to  lay  the 
blame  on  himself;  and  of  one  whose  instruction  is  completed, 
neither  to  blame  another,  nor  himself. 


246  ARRIAN 


VI 


Be  not  elated  at  any  advantage  (excellence)  which  belongs  to 
another.  If  a  horse  when  he  is  elated  should  say,  I  am  beauti- 
ful, one  might  endure  it.  But  when  you  are  elated  and  say,  I 
have  a  beautiful  horse,  you  must  know  that  you  are  elated  at 
having  a  good  horse.  What  then  is  your  own  ?  The  use  of  ap- 
pearances. Consequently,  when  in  the  use  of  appearances  you 
are  conformable  to  nature,  then  be  elated,  for  then  you  will  be 
elated  at  something  good  which  is  your  own. 

VII 

As  on  a  voyage  when  the  vessel  has  reached  a  port,  if  you 
go  out  to  get  water  it  is  an  amusement  by  the  way  to  pick  up  a 
shellfish  or  some  bulb,  but  your  thoughts  ought  to  be  directed  to 
the  ship,  and  you  ought  to  be  constantly  watching  if  the  captain 
should  call,  and  then  you  must  throw  away  all  those  things,  that 
you  may  not  be  bound  and  pitched  into  the  ship  like  sheep.  So 
in  life  also,  if  there  be  given  to  you  instead  of  a  little  bulb  and 
a  shell  a  wife  and  child,  there  will  be  nothing  to  prevent  (you 
from  taking  them).  But  if  the  captain  should  call,  run  to  the 
ship  and  leave  all  those  things  without  regard  to  them.  But  if 
you  are  old,  do  not  even  go  far  from  the  ship,  lest  when  you  are 
called  you  make  default. 

VIII 

Seek  not  that  the  things  which  happen  should  happen  as  you 
wish;  but  wish  the  things  which  happen  to  be  as  they  are,  and 
you  will  have  a  tranquil  flow  of  life. 

IX 

Disease  is  an  impediment  to  the  body,  but  not  to  the  will, 
unless  the  will  itself  chooses.  Lameness  is  an  impediment  to  the 
leg,  but  not  to  the  will.  And  add  this  reflection  on  the  occasion 
of  everything  that  happens;  for  you  will  find  it  an  impediment 
to  something  else,  but  not  to  yourself. 

X 

On  the  occasion  of  every  accident  (event)  that  befalls  you, 
remember  to  turn  to  yourself  and  inquire  what  power  you  have 


ARRIAN  247 

for  turning  it  to  use.  If  you  see  a  fair  man  or  a  fair  woman, 
you  will  find  that  the  power  to  resist  is  temperance  (continence). 
If  labor  (pain)  be  presented  to  you,  you  will  find  that  it  is  endur- 
ance. If  it  be  abusive  words,  you  will  find  it  to  be  patience. 
And  if  you  have  been  thus  formed  to  the  (proper)  habit,  the 
appearances  will  not  carry  you  along  with  them. 

XI 

Never  say  about  anything,  I  have  lost  it,  but  say  I  have  re- 
stored it.  Is  your  child  dead  ?  It  has  been  restored.  Is  your 
wife  dead  ?  She  has  been  restored.  Has  your  estate  been  taken 
from  you  ?  Has  not  then  this  also  been  restored  ?  But  he  who 
has  taken  it  from  me  is  a  bad  man.  But  what  is  it  to  you,  by 
whose  hands  the  giver  demanded  it  back  ?  So  long  as  he  may 
allow  you,  take  care  of  it  as  a  thing  which  belongs  to  another, 
as  travelers  do  with  their  inn. 

XII 

If  you  intend  to  improve,  throw  away  such  thoughts  as  these: 
if  I  neglect  my  affairs,  I  shall  not  have  the  means  of  living; 
unless  I  chastise  my  slave,  he  will  be  bad.  For  it  is  better  to 
die  of  hunger  and  so  to  be  released  from  grief  and  fear  than 
to  live  in  abundance  with  perturbation;  and  it  is  better  for  your 
slave  to  be  bad  than  for  you  to  be  unhappy.  Begin  then  from 
little  things.  Is  the  oil  spilled  ?  Is  a  little  wine  stolen  ?  Say 
on  the  occasion,  at  such  price  is  sold  freedom  from  perturbation; 
at  such  price  is  sold  tranquillity,  but  nothing  is  got  for  nothing. 
And  when  you  call  your  slave,  consider  that  it  is  possible  that  he 
does  not  hear;  and  if  he  does  hear,  that  he  will  do  nothing  which 
you  wish.  But  matters  are  not  so  well  with  him,  but  altogether 
well  with  you,  that  it  should  be  in  his  power  for  you  to  be  not 
disturbed. 

XIII 

If  you  would  improve,  submit  to  be  considered  without  sense, 
and  foolish  with  respect  to  externals.  Wish  to  be  considered  to 
know  nothing;  and  if  you  shall  seem  to  some  to  be  a  person  of 
importance,  distrust  yourself.  For  you  should  know  that  it  is  not 
easy  both  to  keep  your  will  in  a  condition  conformable  to  nature 
and  (to  secure)  external  things;  but  if  a  man  is  careful  about 
the  one,  it  is  an  absolute  necessity  that  he  will  neglect  the  other. 


248  ARRIAN 


XIV 


If  you  would  have  your  children  and  your  wife  and  your 
friends  to  live  forever,  you  are  silly;  for  you  would  have  the 
things  which  are  not  in  your  power  to  be  in  your  power,  and 
the  things  which  belong  to  others  to  be  yours.  So  if  you  would 
have  your  slave  to  be  free  from  faults,  you  are  a  fool;  for  you 
would  have  badness  not  to  be  badness  but  something  else.  But 
if  you  wish  not  to  fail  in  your  desires,  you  are  able  to  do  that. 
Practice,  then,  this  which  you  are  able  to  do.  He  is  the  master 
of  every  man  who  has  the  power  over  the  things  which  another 
person  wishes  or  does  not  wish,  the  power  to  confer  them  on 
him  or  to  take  them  away.  Whoever,  then,  wishes  to  be  free,  let 
him  neither  wish  for  anything  nor  avoid  anything  which  depends 
on  others;  if  he  does  not  observe  this  rule  he  must  be  a  slave. 

XV 

Remember  that  in  life  you  ought  to  behave  as  at  a  banquet. 
Suppose  that  something  is  carried  round  and  is  opposite  to  you. 
Stretch  out  your  hand  and  take  a  portion  with  decency.  Sup- 
pose that  it  passes  by  you.  Do  not  detain  it.  Suppose  that  it  is 
not  yet  come  to  you.  Do  not  send  your  desire  forward  to  it,  but 
wait  till  it  is  opposite  to  you.  Do  so  with  respect  to  children,  so 
with  respect  to  a  wife,  so  with  respect  to  magisterial  offices,  so  with 
respect  to  wealth,  and  you  will  be  some  time  a  worthy  partner  of 
the  banquets  of  the  gods.  But  if  you  take  none  of  the  things 
which  are  set  before  you,  and  even  despise  them,  then  you  will 
be  not  only  a  fellow-banqueter  with  the  gods,  but  also  a  partner 
with  them  in  power;  for  by  acting  thus  Diogenes  and  Heraclei- 
tus,  and  those  like  them  were  deservedly  divine,  and  were  so 
called. 

XVI 

When  you  see  a  person  weeping  in  sorrow  either  when  a  child 
goes  abroad  or  when  he  is  dead,  or  when  the  man  has  lost  his 
property,  take  care  that  the  appearance  does  not  hurry  you  away 
with  it,  as  if  he  were  suffering  in  external  things.  But  straight- 
way make  a  distinction  in  your  own  mind,  and  be  in  readiness 
to  say,  it  is  not  that  which  has  happened  that  afflicts  this  man, 
for  it  does  not  afflict  another,  but  it  is  the  opinion  about  this 
thing  which   afflicts  the   man.     So  far  as  words,  then,  do   not  be 


ARRIAN  249 

unwilling  to  show  him  sympathy,  and  even  if  it  happens  so,  to 
lament  with  him;  but  take  care  that  you  do  not  lament  inter- 
nally also. 

XVII 

Remember  that  thou  art  an  actor  in  a  play,  of  such  a  kind  as 
the  teacher  (author)  may  choose;  if  short,  of  a  short  one;  if  long, 
of  a  long  one:  if  he  wishes  you  to  act  the  part  of  a  poor  man, 
see  that  you  act  the  part  naturally;  if  the  part  of  a  lame  man, 
of  a  magistrate,  of  a  private  person  (do  the  same).  For  this  is 
your  duty,  to  act  well  the  part  that  is  given  to  you ;  but  to  select 
the  part  belongs  to  another. 

XVIII 

When  a  raven  has  croaked  inauspiciously,  let  not  the  appear- 
ance hurry  you  away  with  it;  but  straightway  make  a  distinction 
in  your  mind  and  say:  None  of  these  things  is  signified  to  me, 
but  either  to  my  poor  body,  or  to  my  small  property,  or  to  my 
reputation,  or  to  my  children,  or  to  my  wife:  but  to  me  all 
significations  are  auspicious  if  I  choose.  For  whatever  of  these 
things  results,  it  is  in  my  power  to  derive  benefit  from  it. 

XIX 

You  can  be  invincible,  if  you  enter  into  no  contest  in  which 
it  is  not  in  your  power  to  conquer.  Take  care  then  when  you 
observe  a  man  honored  before  others  or  possessed  of  great  power 
or  highly  esteemed  for  any  reason,  not  to  suppose  him  happy, 
and  be  not  carried  away  by  the  appearance.  For  if  the  nature 
of  the  good  is  in  our  power,  neither  envy  nor  jealousy  will  have 
a  place  in  us.  But  you  yourself  will  not  wish  to  be  a  general 
or  senator  (np braves)  or  consul,  but  a  free  man:  and  there  is  only 
one  way  to  this,  to  despise  (care  not  for)  the  things  which  are 
not  in  our  power. 

XX 

Remember  that  it  is  not  he  who  reviles  you  or  strikes  you, 
who  insults  you,  but  it  is  your  opinion  about  these  things  as 
being  insulting.  When  then  a  man  irritates  you,  you  must  know 
that  it  is  your  own  opinion  which  has  irritated  you.  Therefore 
especially  try  not  to  be  carried  away  by  the  appearance;  for  if 
you  once  gain  time  and  delay,  you  will  more  easily  master  your- 
self. 


250  ARRIAN 


XXI 


Let  death  and  exile  and  every  other  thing  which  appears  dread- 
ful be  daily  before  your  eyes;  but  most  of  all  death:  and  you 
will  never  think  of  anything  mean,  nor  will  you  desire  anything 
extravagantly. 

XXII 

If  you  desire  philosophy,  prepare  yourself  from  the  beginning 
to  be  ridiculed,  to  expect  that  many  will  sneer  at  you,  and  say: 
He  has  all  at  once  returned  to  us  as  a  philosopher;  and  whence 
does  he  get  this  supercilious  look  for  us  ?  Do  you  not  show  a 
supercilious  look,  but  hold  on  to  the  things  which  seem  to  you 
best  as  one  appointed  by  God  to  this  station.  And  remember 
that  if  you  abide  in  the  same  principles,  these  men  who  first 
ridiculed  will  afterwards  admire  you;  but  if  you  shall  have  been 
overpowered  by  them,  you  will  bring  on  yourself  double  ridicule. 

XXIII 

If  it  should  ever  happen  to  you  to  be  turned  to  externals  in 
order  to  please  some  person,  you  must  know  that  you  have  lost 
your  purpose  in  life.  Be  satisfied  then  in  everything  with  being 
a  philosopher;  and  if  you  wish  to  seem  also  to  any  person  to  be 
a  philosopher,  appear  so  to  yourself,  and  you  will  be  able  to  do 
this. 

XXIV 

Let  not  these  thoughts  afflict  you,  I  shall  live  unhonored  and 
be  nobody.  For  if  want  of  honor  (anp.(a)  be  an  evil,  you  cannot 
be  in  evil  through  the  means  (fault)  of  another  any  more  than 
you  can  be  involved  in  anything  base.  Is  it  then  your  busi- 
ness to  obtain  the  rank  of  a  magistrate,  or  to  be  received  at  a 
banquet  ?  By  no  means.  How  then  can  this  be  want  of  honor 
(dishonor)  ?  And  how  will  you  be  nobody,  when  you  ought  to 
be  somebody  in  those  things  only  which  are  in  your  power,  in 
which  indeed  it  is  permitted  to  you  to  be  a  man  of  the  great- 
est worth  ?  But  your  friends  will  be  without  assistance !  What 
do  you  mean  by  being  without  assistance  ?  They  will  not  re- 
ceive money  from  you,  nor  will  you  make  them  Roman  citizens. 
Who  then  told  you  that  these  are  among  the  things  which  are 
in  our  power,  and  not  in  the  power  of  others  ?  And  who  can 
give  to  another  what  he  has  not  himself  ?     Acquire  money  then, 


ARRIAN  251 

your  friends  say,  that  we  also  may  have  something.  If  I  can  ac- 
quire money  and  also  keep  myself  modest  and  faithful  and  mag- 
nanimous, point  out  the  way,  and  I  will  acquire  it.  But  if  you 
ask  me  to  lose  the  things  which  are  good  and  my  own,  in  order 
that  you  may  gain  the  things  which  are  not  good,  see  how  un- 
fair and  silly  you  are.  Besides,  which  would  you  rather  have, 
money  or  a  faithful  and  modest  friend  ?  For  this  end  then  rather 
help  me  to  be  such  a  man,  and  do  not  ask  me  to  do  this  by 
which  I  shall  lose  that  character.  But  my  country,  you  say,  as 
far  as  it  depends  on  me,  will  be  without  my  help.  I  ask  again, 
What  help  do  you  mean  ?  It  will  not  have  porticoes  or  baths 
through  you.  And  what  does  this  mean  ?  For  it  is  not  furnished 
with  shoes  by  means  of  a  smith,  nor  with  arms  by  means  of  a 
shoemaker.  But  it  is  enough  if  every  man  fully  discharge  the 
work  that  is  his  own;  and  if  you  provided  it  with  another  citi- 
zen faithful  and  modest,  would  you  not  be  useful  to  it  ?  Yes. 
Then  you  also  cannot  be  useless  to  it.  What  place  then,  you 
say,  shall  I  hold  in  the  city  ?  Whatever  you  can,  if  you  maintain 
at  the  same  time  your  fidelity  and  modesty.  But  if,  when  you 
wish  to  be  useful  to  the  state,  you  shall  lose  these  qualities,  what 
profit  could  you  be  to  it,  if  you  were  made  shameless  and  faith- 
less ? 

XXV 

Has  any  man  been  preferred  before  you  at  a  banquet,  or  in 
being  saluted,  or  in  being  invited  to  a  consultation  ?  If  these 
things  are  good,  you  ought  to  rejoice  that  he  has  obtained  them; 
but  if  bad,  be  not  grieved  because  you  have  not  obtained  them. 
And  remember  that  you  cannot,  if  you  do  not  the  same  things 
in  order  to  obtain  what  is  not  in  our  own  power,  be  considered 
worthy  of  the  same  (equal)  things.  For  how  can  a  man  obtain 
an  equal  share  with  another  when  he  does  not  visit  a  man's  doors 
as  that  other  man  does;  when  he  does  not  attend  him  when  he 
goes  abroad,  as  the  other  man  does;  when  he  does  not  praise 
(flatter)  him  as  another  does  ?  You  will  be  unjust  then  and  in- 
satiable, if  you  do  not  part  with  the  price,  in  return  for  which 
those  things  are  sold,  and  if  you  wish  to  obtain  them  for  noth- 
ing. Well,  what  is  the  price  of  lettuces  ?  An  obolus,  perhaps. 
If  then  a  man  give  up  the  obolus,  and  receive  the  lettuces,  and 
if  you  do  not  give  up  the  obolus  and  do  not  obtain  the  lettuces, 
do   not   suppose   that   you   receive  less  than  he  who  has  got  the 


252  ARRIAN 

lettuces;  for  as  he  has  the  lettuces,  so  you  have  the  obolus  which 
you  did  not  give.  In  the  same  way  then,  in  the  other  matter 
also,  you  have  not  been  invited  to  a  man's  feast,  for  you  did  not 
give  to  the  host  the  price  at  which  the  supper  is  sold;  but  he 
sells  it  for  praise  (flattery),  he  sells  it  for  personal  attention. 
Give  then  the  price,  if  it  is  for  your  interest,  for  which  it  is 
sold.  But  if  you  wish  both  not  to  give  the  price  and  to  obtain 
the  things,  you  are  insatiable  and  silly.  Have  you  nothing  then 
in  place  of  the  supper  ?  You  have  indeed,  you  have  the  not  Mat- 
tering of  him,  whom  you  did  not  choose  to  flatter;  you  have  the 
not  enduring  of  the  man  when  he  enters  the  room. 

XXVI 

We  may  learn  the  wish  (will)  of  nature  from  the  things  in 
which  we  do  not  differ  from  one  another:  for  instance,  when 
your  neighbor's  slave  has  broken  his  cup,  or  anything  else,  we 
are  ready  to  say  forthwith,  that  it  is  one  of  the  things  which 
happen.  You  must  know  then  that  when  your  cup  also  is  broken, 
you  ought  to  think  as  you  did  when  your  neighbor's  cup  was 
broken.  Transfer  this  reflection  to  greater  things  also.  Is  an- 
other man's  child  or  wife  dead  ?  There  is  no  one  who  would  not 
say,  This  is  an  event  incident  to  man.  But  when  a  man's  own 
child  or  wife  is  dead,  forthwith  he  calls  out,  Woe  to  me,  how 
wretched  I  am !  But  we  ought  to  remember  how  we  feel  when 
we  hear  that  it  has  happened  to  others. 

XXVII 

As  a  mark  is  not  set  up  for  the  purpose  of  missing  the  aim, 
so  neither  does  the  nature  of  evil  exist  in  the  world. 

XXVIII 

If  any  person  were  intending  to  put  your  body  in  the  power 
of  any  man  whom  you  fell  in  with  on  the  way,  you  would  be 
vexed;  but  that  you  put  your  understanding  in  the  power  of  any 
man  whom  you  meet,  so  that  if  he  should  revile  you,  it  is  dis- 
turbed and  troubled,  are  you  not  ashamed  at  this  ? 

XXIX 

In  every  act  observe  the  things  which  come  first,  and  those 
which  follow  it;    and   so  proceed  to  the  act.      If   you  do   not,  at 


ARRIAN  253 

first  you  will  approach  it  with  alacrity,  without  having  thought  of 
the  things  which  will  follow;  but  afterwards,  when  certain  base 
(ugly)  things  have  shown  themselves,  you  will  be  ashamed.  A 
man  wishes  to  conquer  at  the  Olympic  games.  I  also  wish,  in- 
deed, for  it  is  a  fine  thing.  But  observe  both  the  things  which 
come  first,  and  the  things  which  follow;  and  then  begin  the  act. 
You  must  do  everything  according  to  rule;  eat  according  to  strict 
orders;  abstain  from  delicacies;  exercise  yourself  as  you  are  bid 
at  appointed  times,  in  heat,  in  cold;  you  must  not  drink  cold 
water,  nor  wine  as  you  choose;  in  a  word,  you  must  deliver  your- 
self up  to  the  exercise  master  as  you  do  to  the  physician,  and 
then  proceed  to  the  contest.  And  sometimes  you  will  strain  the 
hand,  put  the  ankle  out  of  joint,  swallow  much  dust,  sometimes 
be  flogged,  and  after  all  this  be  defeated.  When  you  have  con- 
sidered all  this,  if  you  still  choose,  go  to  the  contest:  if  you  do 
not  you  will  behave  like  children,  who  at  one  time  play  as 
wrestlers,  another  time  as  flute  players,  again  as  gladiators,  then 
as  trumpeters,  then  as  tragic  actors.  So  you  also  will  be  at  one 
time  an  athlete,  at  another  a  gladiator,  then  a  rhetorician,  then 
a  philosopher,  but  with  your  whole  soul  you  will  be  nothing  at 
all;  but  like  an  ape  you  imitate  everything  that  you  see,  and  one 
thing  after  another  pleases  you.  For  you  have  not  undertaken 
anything  with  consideration,  nor  have  you  surveyed  it  well;  but 
carelessly  and  with  cold  desire.  Thus  some  who  have  seen  a 
philosopher  and  having  heard  one  speak,  as  Euphrates  speaks  — 
and  who  can  speak  as  he  does?  —  they  wish  to  be  philosophers 
themselves  also.  My  man,  first  of  all  consider  what  kind  of 
thing  it  is;  and  then  examine  your  own  nature,  if  you  are  able 
to  sustain  the  character.  Do  you  wish  to  be  a  pentathlete  or  a 
wrestler  ?  Look  at  your  arms,  your  thighs,  examine  your  loins ; 
for  different  men  are  formed  by  nature  for  different  things.  Do 
you  think  that  if  you  do  these  things,  you  can  eat  in  the  same 
manner,  drink  in  the  same  manner,  and  in  the  same  manner 
loathe  certain  things  ?  You  must  pass  sleepless  nights,  endure 
toil,  go  away  from  your  kinsmen,  be  despised  by  a  slave ;  in 
everything  have  the  inferior  part,  in  honor,  in  office,  in  the  courts 
of  justice,  in  every  little  matter.  Consider  these  things,  if  you 
would  exchange  for  them  freedom  from  passions,  liberty,  tran- 
quillity. If  not,  take  care  that,  like  little  children,  you  be  not 
now  a  philosopher,  then  a  servant  of  the  publicani,  then  a  rheto- 
rician, then  a  procurator  (manager)  for  Caesar.     These  things  are 


254  ARRIAN 

not  consistent.  You  must  be  one  man,  either  good  or  bad.  You 
must  either  cultivate  your  own  ruling  faculty,  or  external  things. 
You  must  either  exercise  your  skill  on  internal  things  or  on  ex- 
ternal things;  that  is,  you  must  cither  maintain  the  position  of  a 
philosopher  or  that  of  a  common  person. 

XXX 

Duties  are  universally  measured  by  relations  (rais  ax^ff£(T:)'  Is 
a  man  a  father  ?  The  precept  is  to  take  care  of  him,  to  yield  to 
him  in  all  things,  to  submit  when  he  is  reproachful,  when  he  in- 
flicts blows.  But  suppose  that  he  is  a  bad  father.  Were  you, 
then,  by  nature  made  akin  to  a  good  father  ?  No ;  but  to  a 
father.  Does  a  brother  wrong  you  ?  Maintain,  then,  your  own 
position  towards  him,  and  do  not  examine  what  he  is  doing,  but 
what  you  must  do  that  your  will  shall  be  conformable  to  nature. 
For  another  will  not  damage  you,  unless  you  choose:  but  you 
will  be  damaged,  then,  when  you  shall  think  that  you  are  dam- 
aged. In  this  way,  then,  you  will  discover  your  duty  from  the 
relation  of  a  neighbor,  from  that  of  a  citizen,  from  that  of  a  gen- 
eral, if  you  are  accustomed  to  contemplate  the  relations. 

XXXI 

As  to  piety  towards  the  gods,  you  must  know  that  this  is  the 
chief  thing,  to  have  right  opinions  about  them,  to  think  that  they 
exist,  and  that  they  administer  the  All  well  and  justly;  and  you 
must  fix  yourself  in  this  principle  (duty),  to  obey  them,  and  to 
yield  to  them  in  everything  which  happens,  and  voluntarily  to 
follow  it  as  being  accomplished  by  the  wisest  intelligence.  For 
if  you  do  so,  you  will  never  either  blame  the  gods,  nor  will  you 
accuse  them  of  neglecting  you.  And  it  is  not  possible  for  this  to 
be  done  in  any  other  way  than  by  withdrawing  from  the  things 
which  are  not  in  our  power,  and  by  placing  the  good  and  the 
evil  only  in  those  things  which  are  in  our  power.  For  if  you 
think  that  any  of  the  things  which  are  not  in  our  power  are  good 
or  bad,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that,  when  you  do  not  obtain 
what  you  wish,  and  when  you  fall  into  those  things  which  you 
do  not  wish,  you  will  find  fault  and  hate  those  who  are  the  cause 
of  them ;  for  every  animal  is  formed  by  nature  to  this,  to  fly 
from  and  to  turn  from  the  things  which  appear  harmful  and  the 
things  which  are  the  cause  of  the  harm,  but  to  follow  and  admire 


ARRIAN  255 

the  things  which  are  useful  and  the  causes  of  the  useful.  It  is 
impossible,  then,  for  a  person  who  thinks  that  he  is  harmed  to 
be  delighted  with  that  which  he  thinks  to  be  the  cause  of  the 
harm,  as  it  is  also  impossible  to  be  pleased  with  the  harm  itself. 
For  this  reason,  also,  a  father  is  reviled  by  his  son,  when  he 
gives  no  part  to  his  son  of  the  things  which  are  considered  to 
be  good;  and  it  was  this  which  made  Polynices  and  Eteocles  en- 
emies, the  opinion  that  royal  power  was  a  good.  It  is  for  this 
reason  that  the  cultivator  of  the  earth  reviles  the  gods;  for  this 
reason  the  sailor  does,  and  the  merchant;  and  for  this  reason 
those  who  lose  their  wives  and  their  children.  For  where  the 
useful  (your  interest)  is,  there  also  piety  is.  Consequently,  he 
who  takes  care  to  desire  as  he  ought  and  to  avoid  (txxXiveiv)  as 
he  ought,  at  the  same  time  also  cares  after  piety.  But  to  make 
libations  and  to  sacrifice  and  to  offer  first  fruits  according  to  the 
custom  of  our  fathers,  purely  and  not  meanly  nor  carelessly  nor 
scantily  nor  above  our  ability,  is  a  thing  which  belongs  to  all 
to  do. 

XXXII 

When  you  have  recourse  to  divination,  remember  that  you  do 
not  know  how  it  will  turn  out,  but  that  you  are  come  to  inquire 
from  the  diviner.  But  of  what  kind  it  is,  you  know  when  you 
come,  if  indeed  you  are  a  philosopher.  For  if  it  is  any  of  the 
things  which  are  not  in  our  power,  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  it  must  be  neither  good  nor  bad.  Do  not  then  bring  to 
the  diviner  desire  or  aversion  (Zxxfoatv) ;  if  you  do,  you  will  ap- 
proach him  with  fear.  But  having  determined  in  your  mind  that 
everything  which  shall  turn  out  (result)  is  indifferent,  and  does 
not  concern  you  (whatever  it  may  be,  for  it  will  be  in  your 
power  to  use  it  well,  and  no  man  will  hinder  this),  come  then 
with  confidence  to  the  gods  as  your  advisers.  And  then  when 
any  advice  shall  have  been  given,  remember  whom  you  have 
taken  as  advisers,  and  whom  you  will  have  neglected,  if  you  do 
not  obey  them.  And  go  to  divination,  as  Socrates  said  that  you 
ought,  about  those  matters  in  which  all  the  inquiry  has  refer- 
ence to  the  result,  and  in  which  means  are  not  given  either  by 
reason  nor  by  any  other  art  for  knowing  the  thing  which  is  the 
subject  of  the  inquiry.  Wherefore  when  we  ought  to  share  a 
friend's  danger,  or  that  of  our  country,  you  must  not  consult  the 
diviner  whether  you  ought  to  share  it.     For  even  if  the  diviner 


256  ARRIAN 

shall  tell  you  that  the  signs  of  the  victims  are  unlucky,  it  is 
plain  that  this  is  a  token  of  death,  or  mutilation  of  part  of  the 
body,  or  of  exile.  But  reason  prevails,  that  even  with  these 
risks  we  should  share  the  dangers  of  our  friend  and  of  our 
country.  Therefore  attend  to  the  greater  diviner,  the  Pythian 
god,  who  ejected  from  the  temple  him  who  did  not  assist  his 
friend,  when  he  was  being  murdered. 


XXXIII 

Immediately  prescribe  some  character  and  some  form  to  your- 
self, which  you  shall  observe  both  when  you  are  alone  and  when 
you  meet  with  men. 

And  let  silence  be  the  general  rule,  or  let  only  what  is  neces- 
sary be  said,  and  in  few  words.  And  rarely,  and  when  the  occa- 
sion calls,  we  shall  say  something;  but  about  none  of  the  common 
subjects,  not  about  gladiators,  nor  horse  races,  nor  about  athletes, 
nor  about  eating  or  drinking,  which  are  the  usual  subjects;  and 
especially  not  about  men,  as  blaming  them  or  praising  them,  or 
comparing  them.  If  then  you  are  able,  bring  over  by  your  con- 
versation the  conversation  of  your  associates  to  that  which  is 
proper;  but  if  you  should  happen  to  be  confined  to  the  company 
of  strangers,  be  silent. 

Let  not  your  laughter  be  much,  nor  on  many  occasions,  nor 
excessive. 

Refuse  altogether  to  take  an  oath,  if  it  is  possible;  if  it  is  not, 
refuse  as  far  as  you  are  able. 

Avoid  banquets  which  are  given  by  strangers  and  by  ignorant 
persons.  But  if  ever  there  be  occasion  to  join  in  them,  let  your 
attention  be  carefully  fixed  that  you  slip  not  into  the  manners  of 
the  vulgar  (the  uninstructed).  For  you  must  know  that  if  your 
companion  be  impure,  he  also  who  keeps  company  with  him  must 
become  impure,  though  he  should  happen  to  be  pure. 

Take  (apply)  the  things  which  relate  to  the  body  as  far  as  the 
bare  use,  as  food,  drink,  clothing,  house,  and  slaves;  but  exclude 
everything  which  is  for  show  or  luxury. 

As  to  pleasure,  abstain  as  far  as  you  can  before  marriage; 
but  if  you  do  indulge  in  it,  do  it  in  the  way  which  is  conform- 
able to  custom.  Do  not,  however,  be  disagreeable  to  those  who 
indulge  in  these  pleasures,  or  reprove  them;  and  do  not  often 
boast  that  you  do  not  indulge  in  them  yourself. 


ARRIAN  257 

If  a  man  has  reported  to  you  that  a  certain  person  speaks  ill 
of  you,  do  not  make  any  defense  (answer)  to  what  has  been  told 
you;  but  reply,  The  man  did  not  know  the  rest  of  my  faults,  for 
he  would  not  have  mentioned  these  only. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  go  to  the  theatres  often:  but  if  there 
be  a  proper  occasion  for  going,  do  not  show  yourself  as  being  a 
partisan  of  any  man  except  yourself,  that  is,  desire  only  that  to 
be  done  which  is  done,  and  for  him  only  to  gain  the  prize  who 
gains  the  prize ;  for  in  this  way  you  will  meet  with  no  hindrance. 
But  abstain  entirely  from  shouts  and  laughter  at  any  (thing  or 
person),  or  violent  emotions.  And  when  you  are  come  away,  do 
not  talk  much  about  what  has  passed  on  the  stage,  except  about 
that  which  may  lead  to  your  own  improvement.  For  it  is  plain, 
if  you  do  talk  much,  that  you  admired  the  spectacle  (more  than 
you  ought). 

Do  not  go  to  the  hearing  of  certain  persons'  recitations,  nor 
visit  them  readily.  But  if  you  do  attend,  observe  gravity  and 
sedateness,  and  also  avoid  making  yourself  disagreeable. 

"When  you  are  going  to  meet  with  any  person,  and  particularly 
one  of  those  who  are  considered  to  be  in  a  superior  condition, 
place  before  yourself  what  Socrates  or  Zeno  would  have  done  in 
such  circumstances,  and  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  making  a 
proper  use  of  the  occasion. 

When  you  are  going  to  any  of  those  who  are  in  great  power, 
place  before  yourself  that  you  will  not  find  the  man  at  home, 
that  you  will  be  excluded,  that  the  door  will  not  be  opened  to 
you,  that  the  man  will  not  care  about  you.  And  if  with  all  this 
it  is  your  duty  to  visit  him,  bear  what  happens,  and  never  say 
to  yourself  that  it  was  not  worth  the  trouble.  For  this  is  silly, 
and  marks  the  character  of  a  man  who  is  offended  by  externals. 

In  company  take  care  not  to  speak  much  and  excessively 
about  your  own  acts  or  dangers;  for  as  it  is  pleasant  to  you  to 
make  mention  of  your  own  dangers,  it  is  not  so  pleasant  to 
others  to  hear  what  has  happened  to  you.  Take  care  also  not 
to  provoke  laughter;  for  this  is  a  slippery  way  towards  vulgar 
habits,  and  is  also  adapted  to  diminish  the  respect  of  your  neigh- 
bors. It  is  a  dangerous  habit  also  to  approach  obscene  talk. 
When,  then,  anything  of  this  kind  happens,  if  there  be  a  good 
opportunity,  rebuke  the  man  who  has  proceeded  to  this  talk;  but 
if  there  be  not  an  opportunity,  by  your  silence  at  least,  and 
1— 17 


258  ARRIAN 

blushing   and   expression   of  dissatisfaction  by  your  countenance, 
show  plainly  that  you  are  displeased  at  such  talk. 

XXXIV 

If  you  have  received  the  impression  (<pavra6Uv)  of  any  pleas- 
ure, guard  yourself  against  being  carried  away  by  it;  but  let  the 
thing  wait  for  you,  and  allow  yourself  a  certain  delay  on  your 
own  part.  Then  think  of  both  times,  of  the  time  when  you  will 
enjoy  the  pleasure,  and  of  the  time  after  the  enjoyment  of  the 
pleasure,  when  you  will  repent  and  will  reproach  yourself.  And 
set  against  these  things  how  you  will  rejoice,  if  you  have  ab- 
stained from  the  pleasure,  and  how  you  will  commend  yourself. 
But  if  it  seem  to  you  seasonable  to  undertake  (do)  the  thing, 
take  care  that  the  charm  of  it,  and  the  pleasure,  and  the  attrac- 
tion of  it  shall  not  conquer  you;  but  set  on  the  other  side  the 
consideration,  how  much  better  it  is  to  be  conscious  that  you 
have  gained  this  victory. 

XXXV 

When  you  have  decided  that  a  thing  ought  to  be  done,  and 
are  doing  it,  never  avoid  being  seen  doing  it,  though  the  many 
shall  form  an  unfavorable  opinion  about  it.  For  if  it  is  not  right 
to  do  it,  avoid  doing  the  thing;  but  if  it  is  right,  why  are  you 
afraid  of  those  who  shall  find  fault  wrongly  ? 

XXXVI 

As  the  proposition,  it  is  either  day  or  it  is  night,  is  of  great 
importance  for  the  disjunctive  argument,  but  for  the  conjunctive 
is  of  no  value,  so  in  a  symposium  (entertainment)  to  select  the 
larger  share  is  of  great  value  for  the  body,  but  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  social  feeling  is  worth  nothing.  When,  then,  you 
are  eating  with  another,  remember  to  look  not  only  to  the  value 
for  the  body  of  the  things  set  before  you,  but  also  to  the  value  of 
the  behavior  towards  the  host  which  ought  to  be  observed. 

XXXVII 

If  you  have  assumed  a  character  above  your  strength,  you  have 
both  acted  in  this  manner  in  an  unbecoming  way,  and  you  have 
neglected  that  which  you  might  have  fulfilled. 


ARRIAN  259 


XXXVIII 


In  walking1  about,  as  you  take  care  not  to  step  on  a  nail,  or 
to  sprain  your  foot,  so  take  care  not  to  damage  your  own  ruling 
faculty ;  and  if  we  observe  this  rule  in  every  act,  we  shall  under- 
take the  act  with  more  security. 

XXXIX 

The  measure  of  possession  (property)  is  to  every  man  the  body, 
as  the  foot  is  of  the  shoe.  If  then  you  stand  on  this  rule  (the 
demands  of  the  body),  you  will  maintain  the  measure;  but  if  you 
pass  beyond  it,  you  must  then  of  necessity  be  hurried  as  it  were 
down  a  precipice.  As  also  in  the  matter  of  the  shoe,  if  you  go 
beyond  the  (necessities  of  the)  foot,  the  shoe  is  gilded,  then  of  a 
purple  color,  then  embroidered;  for  there  is  no  limit  to  that  which 
has  once  passed  the  true  measure. 

XL 

Women  forthwith  from  the  age  of  fourteen  are  called  by  the 
men  mistresses  (xupiat  dominae).  Therefore,  since  they  see  that 
there  is  nothing  else  that  they  can  obtain,  but  only  the  power  of 
living  with  men,  they  begin  to  decorate  themselves,  and  to  place 
all  their  hopes  in  this.  It  is  worth  our  while  then  to  take  care 
that  they  may  know  that  they  are  valued  (by  men)  for  nothing 
else  than  appearing  (being)  decent  and  modest  and  discreet. 

XLI 

It  is  a  mark  of  a  mean  capacity  to  spend  much  time  on  the 
things  which  concern  the  body,  such  as  much  exercise,  much  eat- 
ing, much  drinking,  much  easing  of  the  body.  But  these  things 
should  be  done  as  subordinate  things;  and  let  all  your  care  be 
directed  to  the  mind. 

XLII 

When  any  person  treats  you  ill  or  speaks  ill  of  you,  remember 
that  he  does  this  or  says  this  because  he  thinks  that  it  is  his 
duty.  It  is  not  possible  then  for  him  to  follow  that  which  seems 
right  to  you,  but  that  which  seems  right  to  himself.  Accordingly 
if  he  is  wrong  in  his  opinion,  he  is  the  person  who  is  hurt,  for 
he  is  the  person  who  has  been  deceived;  for  if  a  man  shall  sup- 
pose  the   true   conjunction  to  be  false,  it  is  not  the  conjunction 


260  ARRIAN 

which  is  hindered,  but  the  man  who  has  been  deceived  about  it. 
If  you  proceed  then  from  these  opinions,  you  will  be  mild  in 
temper  to  him  who  reviles  you;  for  say  on  each  occasion,  It 
seemed  so  to  him. 

XLIII 

Everything  has  two  handles,  the  one  by  which  it  may  be 
borne,  the  other  by  which  it  may  not.  If  your  brother  acts  un- 
justly, do  not  lay  hold  of  the  act  by  that  handle  wherein  he  acts 
unjustly,  for  this  is  the  handle  which  cannot  be  borne;  but  lay 
hold  of  the  other,  that  he  is  your  brother,  that  he  was  nurtured 
with  you,  and  you  will  lay  hold  of  the  thing  by  that  handle  by 
which  it  can  be  borne. 

XLIV 

These  reasonings  do  not  cohere:  I  am  richer  than  you,  there- 
fore I  am  better  than  you;  I  am  more  eloquent  than  you,  there- 
fore I  am  better  than  you.  On  the  contrary,  these  rather  cohere: 
I  am  richer  than  you,  therefore  my  possessions  are  greater  than 
yours;  I  am  more  eloquent  than  you,  therefore  my  speech  is  su- 
perior to  yours.     But  you  are  neither  possession  nor  speech. 

XLV 

Does  a  man  bathe  quickly  (early)  ?  do  not  say  that  he  bathes 
badly,  but  that  he  bathes  quickly.  Does  a  man  drink  much  wine? 
do  not  say  that  he  does  this  badly,  but  say  that  he  drinks  much. 
For  before  you  shall  have  determined  the  opinion,  how  do  you 
know  whether  he  is  acting  wrong  ?  Thus  it  will  not  happen  to 
you  to  comprehend  some  appearances  which  are  capable  of  being 
comprehended,  but  to  assent  to  others. 

XL  VI 

On  no  occasion  call  yourself  a  philosopher,  and  do  not  speak 
much  among  the  uninstructed  about  theorems  (philosophical  rules, 
precepts) ;  but  do  that  which  follows  from  them.  For  example, 
at  a  banquet  do  not  say  how  a  man  ought  to  eat,  but  eat  as  you 
ought  to  eat.  For  remember  that  in  this  way  Socrates  also  alto- 
gether avoided  ostentation.  Persons  used  to  come  to  him  and 
ask  to  be  recommended  by  him  to  philosophers,  and  he  used  to 
take  them  to  philosophers,  so  easily  did  he  submit  to  being  over- 


ARRIAN  261 

looked.  Accordingly,  if  any  conversation  should  arise  among  un- 
instructed  persons  about  any  theorem,  generally  be  silent;  for 
there  is  great  danger  that  you  will  immediately  vomit  up  what 
you  have  not  digested.  And  when  a  man  shall  say  to  you  that 
you  know  nothing,  and  you  are  not  vexed,  then  be  sure  that  you 
have  begun  the  work  (of  philosophy).  For  even  sheep  do  not 
vomit  up  their  grass  and  show  to  the  shepherds  how  much  they 
have  eaten;  but  when  they  have  internally  digested  the  pasture, 
they  produce  externally  wool  and  milk.  Do  you  also  show  not 
your  theorems  to  the  uninstructed,  but  show  the  acts  which  come 
from  their  digestion. 

XLVII 

When  at  a  small  cost  you  are  supplied  with  everything  for 
the  body,  do  not  be  proud  of  this;  nor,  if  you  drink  water,  say 
on  every  occasion,  I  drink  water.  But  consider  first  how  much 
more  frugal  the  poor  are  than  we,  and  how  much  more  endur- 
ing of  labor.  And  if  you  ever  wish  to  exercise  yourself  in  labor 
and  endurance,  do  it  for  yourself  and  not  for  others.  Do  not 
embrace  statues;  but  if  you  are  ever  very  thirsty,  take  a  draught 
of  cold  water  and  spit  it  out,  and  tell  no  man. 

XLVIII 

The  condition  and  characteristic  of  an  uninstructed  person  is 
this:  he  never  expects  from  himself  profit  (advantage)  nor  harm, 
but  from  externals.  The  condition  and  characteristic  of  a  phi- 
losopher is  this:  he  expects  all  advantage  and  all  harm  from 
himself.  The  signs  (marks)  of  one  who  is  making  progress  are 
these:  he  censures  no  man,  he  praises  no  man,  he  blames  no 
man,  he  accuses  no  man,  he  says  nothing  about  himself  as  if  he 
were  somebody  or  knew  something;  when  he  is  impeded  at  all 
or  hindered,  he  blames  himself;  if  a  man  praises  him  he  ridicules 
the  praiser  to  himself;  if  a  man  censures  him  he  makes  no  de- 
fense; he  goes  about  like  weak  persons,  being  careful  not  to 
move  any  of  the  things  which  are  placed,  before  they  are  firmly 
fixed;  he  removes  all  desire  from  himself,  and  he  transfers  aver- 
sion (ixxXc<Tiv)  to  those  things  only  of  the  things  within  our  power 
which  are  contrary  to  nature;  he  employs  a  moderate  movement 
towards  everything;  whether  he  is  considered  foolish  or  ignorant 
he  cares  not;  and  in  a  word  he  watches  himself  as  if  he  were  an 
enemy  and  lying  in  ambush. 


262  ARRIAN 


XLIX 


When  a  man  is  proud  because  he  can  understand  and  explain 
the  writings  of  Chrysippus,  say  to  yourself,  If  Chrysippus  had 
not  written  obscurely,  this  man  would  have  had  nothing  to  be 
proud  of.  But  what  is  it  that  I  wish  ?  To  understand  nature 
and  to  follow  it.  I  inquire  therefore  who  is  the  interpreter  ?  and 
when  I  have  heard  that  it  is  Chrysippus,  I  come  to  him  (the 
interpreter).  But  I  do  not  understand  what  is  written,  and  there- 
fore I  seek  the  interpreter.  And  so  far  there  is  yet  nothing  to 
be  proud  of.  But  when  I  shall  have  found  the  interpreter,  the 
thing  that  remains  is  to  use  the  precepts  (the  lessons).  This  it- 
self is  the  only  thing  to  be  proud  of.  But  if  I  shall  admire  the 
exposition,  what  else  have  I  been  made  unless  a  grammarian  in- 
stead of  a  philosopher  ?  except  in  one  thing,  that  I  am  explain- 
ing Chrysippus  instead  of  Homer.  When,  then,  any  man  says 
to  me,  Read  Chrysippus  to  me,  I  rather  blush,  when  I  cannot 
show  my  acts  like  to  and  consistent  with  his  words. 


Whatever  things  (rules)  are  proposed  to  you  (for  the  conduct 
of  life)  abide  by  them,  as  if  they  were  laws,  as  if  you  would  be 
guilty  of  impiety  if  you  transgressed  any  of  them.  And  what- 
ever any  man  shall  say  about  you,  do  not  attend  to  it;  for  this 
is  no  affair  of  yours.  How  long  will  you  then  still  defer  think- 
ing yourself  worthy  of  the  best  things,  and  in  no  matter  trans- 
gressing the  distinctive  reason  ?  Have  you  accepted  the  theorems 
(rules),  which  it  was  your  duty  to  agree  to,  and  have  you  agreed 
to  them  ?  what  teacher  then  do  you  still  expect  that  you  defer  to 
him  the  correction  of  yourself  ?  You  are  no  longer  a  youth,  but 
already  a  full-grown  man.  If,  then,  you  are  negligent  and  sloth- 
ful, and  are  continually  making  procrastination  after  procrastina- 
tion, and  proposal  (intention)  after  proposal,  and  fixing  day  after 
day,  after  which  you  will  attend  to  yourself,  you  will  not  know 
that  you  are  not  making  improvement,  but  you  will  continue 
ignorant  (uninstructed)  both  while  you  live  and  till  you  .die. 
Immediately  then  think  it  right  to  live  as  a  full-grown  man,  and 
one  who  is  making  proficiency,  and  let  everything  which  appears 
to  you  to  be  the  best  be  to  you  a  law  which  must  not  be  trans- 
gressed. And  if  anything  laborious  or  pleasant  or  glorious  or 
inglorious  be  presented  to  you,  remember  that  now  is  the   con- 


ARRIAN  263 

test,  now  are  the  Olympic  games,  and  they  cannot  be  deferred; 
and  that  it  depends  on  one  defeat  and  one  giving  way  that 
progress  is  either  lost  or  maintained.  Socrates  in  this  way  be- 
came perfect,  in  all  things  improving  himself,  attending  to  noth- 
ing except  to  reason.  But  you,  though  you  are  not  yet  a  Socrates, 
ought  to  live  as  one  who  wishes  to  be  a  Socrates. 

LI 

The  first  and  most  necessary  place  (part,  tokos)  in  philosophy 
is  the  use  of  theorems  (precepts,  Bewprj/xara),  for  instance,  that  we 
must  not  lie;  the  second  part  is  that  of  demonstrations,  for  in- 
stance, How  is  it  proved  that  we  ought  not  to  lie  ?  The  third  is 
that  which  is  confirmatory  of  these  two,  and  explanatory,  for 
example,  How  is  this  a  demonstration  ?  For  what  is  demonstra- 
tion, what  is  consequence,  what  is  contradiction,  what  is  truth, 
what  is  falsehood  ?  The  third  part  (topic)  is  necessary  on  account 
of  the  second,  and  the  second  on  account  of  the  first;  but  the 
most  necessary  and  that  on  which  we  ought  to  rest  is  the  first. 
But  we  do  the  contrary.  For  we  spend  our  time  on  the  third 
topic,  and  all  our  earnestness  is  about  it;  but  we  entirely  neglect 
the  first.  Therefore  we  lie;  but  the  demonstration  that  we  ought 
not  to  lie  we  have  ready  to  hand. 

LII 

In  everything  (circumstance)  we  should  hold  these  maxims 
ready  to  hand:  — 

((  Lead  me,  O  Zeus,  and  thou  O  Destiny, 
The  way  that  I  am  bid  by  you  to  go : 
To  follow  I  am  ready.     If  I  choose  not, 
I  make  myself  a  wretch,  and  still  must  follow. 

<(  But  whoso  nobly  yields  unto  necessity, 
We  hold  him  wise,  and  skill'd  in  things  divine. w 

and  the  third  also:  aO  Crito,  if  so  it  please  the  gods,  so  let  it 
be;  Anytus  and  Melitus  are  able  indeed  to  kill  me,  but  they  can- 
not harm  me." 

Complete.     Translation  of  George  Long. 


264 


ROGER   ASCHAM 

(1 5 1 5-1 568) 

|oger  Ascham,  author  of  (<The  Schoolmaster, 8  and  one  of  the 
greatest  classical  scholars  of  England,  was  born  at  Kirby 
Wiske  in  Yorkshire  in  15 15.  He  graduated  at  Cambridge 
in  1536,  and  in  1548  became  tutor  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth.  He  is 
sometimes  called  the  <(  Father  of  English  Prose, w  because  of  the  pref- 
erence he  showed  for  it  at  a  time  when  Latin  was  the  universal 
language  of  scholarship.  His  <(  Toxophilus, w  a  treatise  on  archery,  in 
dialogue  form,  is  frequently  quoted  to  illustrate  the  prose  English  of 
his  time,  but  it  does  not  compare  in  interest  with  the  quaint  and 
varied  learning  of  <(  The  Schoolmaster. w  Ascham  died  at  London, 
December  30th,  1568. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

It  is  a  notable  tale,  that  old  Sir  Roger  Chamloe,  sometime 
Chief-Justice,  would   tell   of   himself.     When   he  was  Ancient 

in  Inn  of  Court,  certain  young  gentlemen  were  brought  be- 
fore him  to  be  corrected  for  certain  misorders.  And  one  of  the 
lustiest  said :  C(  Sir,  we  be  young  gentlemen,  and  wise  men  before 
us  have  proved  all  fashions,  and  yet  those  have  done  full  well w ; 
this  they  said  because  it  was  well  known  that  Sir  Roger  had 
been  a  good  fellow  in  his  youth.  But  he  answered  them  very 
wisely.  <(  Indeed, n  saith  he,  <cin  youth  I  was  as  you  are  now; 
and  I  had  twelve  fellows  like  unto  myself,  but  not  one  of  them 
came  to  a  good  end.  And  therefore  follow  not  my  example  in 
youth,  but  follow  my  counsel  in  age,  if  ever  ye  think  to  come  to 
this  place,  or  to  these  years,  that  I  am  come  unto,  lest  ye  meet 
either  with  poverty  or  Tyburn  on  the  way. w 

Thus  experience  of  all  fashions  in  youth,  being  in  proof  al- 
ways dangerous,  in  issue  seldom  lucky,  is  a  way  indeed  to  over- 
much knowledge,  yet  used  commonly  of  such  men,  which  be 
either  carried  by  some  curious  affection  of  mind,  or  driven  by 
some  hard  necessity  of  life  to  hazard  the  trial  of  over  many  per- 
ilous adventures. 


ROGER   ASCHAM  265 

Erasmus,  the  honor  of  learning  of  all  our  time,  said  wisely 
that  experience  is  the  common  schoolhouse  of  fools  and  ill  men. 
Men  of  wit  and  honesty  be  otherwise  instructed,  for  there  be 
that  keep  them  out  of  fire,  and  yet  was  never  burned;  that  be- 
ware of  water,  and  yet  was  never  nigh  drowning;  that  hate  har- 
lots, and  was  never  at  the  stews;  that  abhor  falsehood,  and  never 
break  promises  themselves. 

But  will  ye  see  a  fit  similitude  of  this  adventured  experience  ? 
A  father  that  doth  let  loose  his  son  to  all  experiences  is  most 
like  a  fond  hunter  that  letteth  slip  a  whelp  to  the  whole  herd. 
Twenty  to  one  he  shall  fall  upon  a  rascal  and  let  go  the  fair 
game.  Men  that  hunt  so  be  either  ignorant  persons,  privy  steal- 
ers, or  night  walkers 

Learning,  therefore,  ye  wise  fathers,  and  good  bringing  up, 
and  not  blind  and  dangerous  experience,  is  the  next  and  readiest 
way  that  must  lead  your  children  first  to  wisdom  and  then  to 
worthiness,  if  ever  ye  purpose  they  shall  come  there. 

And  to  say  all  in  short,  though  I  lack  authority  to  give  coun- 
sel, yet  I  lack  not  good-will  to  wish  that  the  youth  in  England, 
especially  gentlemen, —  and,  namely,  nobility, —  should  be  by  good 
bringing  up  so  grounded  in  judgment  of  learning,  so  founded  in 
love  of  honesty,  as  when  they  should  be  called  forth  to  the  exe- 
cution of  great  affairs,  in  service  of  their  prince  and  country,  they 
might  be  able  to  use  and  to  order  all  experiences,  were  they 
good,  were  they  bad,  and  that  according  to  the  square,  rule,  and 
line  of  wisdom,  learning,  and  virtue. 

And  I  do  not  mean  by  all  this  my  talk  that  young  gentlemen 
should  always  be  poring  over  a  book,  and  by  using  good  studies 
should  leave  honest  pleasure  and  haunt  no  good  pastime  —  I 
mean  nothing  less  —  for  it  is  well  known  that  I  both  like  and 
love,  and  have  always,  and  do  yet  still  use,  all  exercises  and 
pastimes  that  be  fit  for  my  nature  and  ability.  And  beside  nat- 
ural disposition,  in  judgment  also  I  was  never  either  stoic  in 
doctrine  or  anabaptist  in  religion  to  mislike  a  merry,  pleasant, 
and  playful  nature,  if  no  outrage  be  committed  against  law, 
measure,  and  good  order. 

Therefore  I  would  wish  that,  besides  some  good  time  fitly 
appointed  and  constantly  kept,  to  increase  by  reading  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  tongues  and  learning,  young  gentlemen  should  use 
and  delight  in  all  courtly  exercises  and  gentlemanlike  pastimes. 
And   good    cause   why:    for  the    selfsame    noble    city   of   Athens, 


266  ROGER   ASCHAM 

justly  commended  of  me  before,  did  wisely  and  upon  great  con- 
sideration appoint  the  muses  Apollo  and  Pallas  to  be  patrons  of 
learning  to  their  youth.  For  the  muses,  besides  learning,  were 
also  ladies  of  dancing,  mirth,  and  minstrelsy.  Apollo  was  god  of 
shooting  and  author  of  cunning  playing  upon  instruments;  Pallas 
also  was  lady  mistress  in  wars.  Whereby  was  nothing  else 
meant  but  that  learning  should  be  always  mingled  with  honest 
mirth  and  comely  exercises;  and  that  war  also  should  be  gov- 
erned by  learning  and  moderated  by  wisdom,  as  did  well  appear 
in  those  captains  of  Athens  named  by  me  before,  and  also  in 
Scipio  and  Caesar,  the  two  diamonds  of  Rome. 

And  Pallas  was  no  more  feared,  in  wearing  ^gida,  than  she 
was  praised  for  choosing  Oliva:  whereby  shineth  the  glory  of 
learning,  which  thus  was  governor  and  mistress,  in  the  noble  city 
of  Athens,  both  of  war  and  peace. 

Therefore,  to  ride  comely;  to  run  fair  at  the  tilt  or  ring;  to 
play  at  all  weapons;  to  shoot  fair  in  bow  or  surely  in  gun;  to 
vault  lustily;  to  run,  to  leap,  to  wrestle,  to  swim;  to  dance 
comely;  to  sing,  and  play  on  instruments  cunningly;  to  hawk,  to 
hunt,  to  play  at  tennis,  and  all  pastimes  generally,  which  be 
joined  with  labor,  used  in  open  place,  and  on  the  daylight  con- 
taining either  some  fit  exercise  for  war,  or  some  pleasant  pastime 
for  peace,  be  not  only  comely  and  decent,  but  also  very  necessary, 
for  a  courtly  gentleman  to  use. 

But  of  all  kind  of  pastimes  fit  for  a  gentleman,  I  will,  God 
willing,  in  fitter  place,  more  at  large,  declare  fully,  in  my  book 
of  <(The  Cockpit, M  which  I  do  write  to  satisfy  some  I  trust,  with 
some  reason,  that  be  more  curious  in  marking  other  men's  doings 
than  careful  in  mending  their  own  faults.  And  some  also  will 
needs  busy  themselves  in  marveling,  and  adding  thereunto  un- 
friendly talk,  why  I,  a  man  of  good  years,  and  of  no  ill  place,  I 
thank  God  and  my  prince,  do  make  choice  to  spend  such  time  in 
writing  of  trifles,  as  the  (<  School  of  Shooting, B  (<  The  Cockpit,  * 
and  this  book  of  the  <(  First  Principles  of  Grammar, B  rather  than 
to  take  some  weighty  matter  in  hand,  either  of  religion  or  civil 
discipline. 

Wise  men,  I  know,  will  well  allow  of  my  choice  herein:  and 
as  for  such,  who  have  not  wit  of  themselves,  but  must  learn  of 
others,  to  judge  right  of  men's  doings,  let  them  read  that  wise 
poet  Horace  in  his  (<Ars  Poetica,"  who  willeth  wise  men  to  be- 
ware  of    high    and    lofty   titles.     For   great   ships  require    costly 


ROGER  ASCHAM  267 

tackling,  and  also  afterward  dangerous  government;  small  boats 
be  neither  very  chargeable  in  making,  nor  very  oft  in  great 
jeopardy,  and  yet  they  carry  many  times  as  good  and  costly 
ware,  as  greater  vessels  do.  A  mean  argument  may  easily  bear 
the  light  burden  of  a  small  fault  and  have  always  at  hand  a 
ready  excuse  for  ill  handling:  and  some  praise  it  is,  if  it  so 
chance,  to  be  better  in  deed  than  a  man  dare  venture  to  seem. 
A  high  title  doth  charge  a  man  with  the  heavy  burden  of  too 
great  a  promise;  and  therefore,  saith  Horace  very  wittily,  that 
that  poet  was  a  very  fool  that  began  his  book  with  a  goodly 
verse  indeed,  but  over  proud  a  promise:  — 

i(Fortunam  Priami  cantabo  et  nobile  bellum* 

And  after,  as  wisely, 

"Quanto  rectiUs  hie,  qui  nil  molitur  ineptly  — 

meaning  Homer,  who,  within  the  compass  of  a  small  argument, 
of  one  harlot,  and  of  one  good  wife,  did  utter  so  much  learning 
in  all  kind  of  sciences,  as,  by  the  judgment  of  Quintilian,  he  de- 
serveth  so  high  a  praise,  that  no  man  yet  deserved  to  sit  in  the 
second  degree  beneath  him.  And  thus  much  out  of  my  way, 
concerning  my  purpose  in  spending  pen,  and  paper,  and  time, 
upon  trifles,  and  namely  to  answer  some  that  have  neither  wit 
nor  learning  to  do  anything  themselves,  neither  will  nor  honesty 
to  say  well  of  other. 

To  join  learning  with  comely  exercises,  Count  Baldassare 
Castiglione,  in  his  book,  «  Cortegiano, »  doth  trimly  teach:  which 
book  advisedly  read  and  diligently  followed,  but  one  year  at 
home  in  England  would  do  a  young  gentleman  more  good,  I 
wist,  than  three  years'  travel  abroad  spent  in  Italy.  And  I  mar- 
vel this  book  is  no  more  read  in  the  court  than  it  is,  seeing  it 
is  so  well  translated  into  English  by  a  worthy  gentleman,  Sir 
Thomas  Hobbie,  who  was  many  ways  well  furnished  with  learn- 
ing, and  very  expert  in  knowledge  of  divers  tongues. 

And  beside  good  precepts  in  books,  in  all  kind  of  tongues, 
this  court  also  never  lacked  many  fair  examples  for  young  gen- 
tlemen to  follow.  And  surely  one  example  is  more  available, 
both  to  good  and  ill,  than  twenty  precepts  written  in  books; 
and  so  Plato,  not  in  one  or  two,  but  divers  places,  doth  plainly 
teach. 


268  ROGER   ASCHAM 

If  King  Edward  had  lived  a  little  longer,  his  only  example 
had  bred  such  a  race  of  worthy  learned  gentlemen  as  this  realm 
never  yet  did  afford. 

And  in  the  second  degree,  two  noble  primroses  of  nobility, 
the  young  Duke  of  Suffolk  and  Lord  H.  Maltrevers,  were  two  such 
examples  to  the  court  for  learning  as  our  time  may  rather  wish 
than  look  for  again. 

At  Cambridge,  also,  in  St.  John's  College,  in  my  time,  I  do 
know  that  not  so  much  the  good  statutes,  as  two  gentlemen  of 
worthy  memory,  Sir  John  Cheke  and  Doctor  Readman,  by  their 
only  example  of  excellency  in  learning,  of  godliness  in  living,  of 
diligency  in  studying,  of  counsel  in  exhorting,  of  good  order  in 
all  things,  did  breed  up  so  many  learned  men  in  that  one  Col- 
lege of  St.  John's  at  one  time,  as,  I  believe,  the  whole  Univer- 
sity of  Louvain  in  many  years  was  never  able  to  afford. 

Present  examples  of  this  present  time  I  list  not  to  touch;  yet 
there  is  one  example  for  all  the  gentlemen  of  this  court  to  fol- 
low, that  may  well  satisfy  them,  or  nothing  will  serve  them,  nor 
no  example  move  them  to  goodness  and  learning. 

It  is  your  shame  (I  speak  to  you  all,  you  young  gentlemen  of 
England)  that  one  maid  should  go  beyond  you  all,  in  excellency 
of  learning  and  knowledge  of  divers  tongues.  Point  forth  six  of 
the  best  given  gentlemen  of  this  court,  and  all  they  together 
show  not  so  much  good-will,  spend  not  so  much  time,  bestow 
not  so  many  hours  daily,  orderly  and  constantly,  for  the  increase 
of  learning  and  knowledge,  as  doth  the  Queen's  Majesty  herself. 
Yea,  I  believe  that  beside  her  perfect  readiness  in  Latin,  Italian, 
French,  and  Spanish,  she  readeth  here  now  at  Windsor  more 
Greek  every  day  than  some  prebendary  of  this  church  doth  read 
Latin  in  a  whole  week.  And  that  which  is  most  praiseworthy  of 
all,  within  the  walls  of  her  privy  chamber  she  hath  obtained  that 
excellency  of  learning,  to  understand,  speak,  and  write,  both  wit- 
tily with  head  and  fair  with  hand,  as  scarce  one  or  two  rare  wits 
in  both  the  universities  have  in  many  years  reached  unto.  Amongst 
all  the  benefits  that  God  hath  blessed  me  withal,  next  the  knowl- 
edge of  Christ's  true  religion,  I  count  this  the  greatest,  that  it 
pleased  God  to  call  me  to  be  one  poor  minister  in  setting  for- 
ward these  excellent  gifts  of  learning  in  this  most  excellent 
princess;  whose  only  example  if  the  rest  of  our  nobility  would 
follow,  then  might  England  be  for  learning  and  wisdom  in  nobil- 
ity a  spectacle  to  all  the  world  beside.     But   see  the  mishap  of 


ROGER   ASCHAM  269 

men;   the  best  examples  have  never   such  force  to  move  to  any 
goodness  as  the  bad,  vain,  light,  and  fond  have  to  all  illness. 

And  one  example,  though  out  of  the  compass  of  learning,  yet 
not  out  of  the  order  of  good  manners,  was  notable  in  this  court 
not  fully  twenty-four  years  ago,  when  all  the  Acts  of  Parliament, 
many  good  proclamations,  divers  strait  commandments,  for  punish- 
ment openly,  special  regard  privately,  could  not  do  so  much  to 
take  away  one  misorder,  as  the  example  of  one  big  one  of  this 
court  did  still  to  keep  up  the  same;  the  memory  whereof  doth 
yet  remain  in  a  common  proverb  of  Birching  Lane. 

Take  heed,  therefore,  ye  great  ones  in  the  court,  yea,  though 
ye  be  the  greatest  of  all,  take  heed  what  ye  do,  take  heed  how 
ye  live.  For  as  you  great  ones  use  to  do,  so  all  mean  men  love 
to  do.  You  be  indeed  makers  or  marrers  of  all  men's  manners 
within  the  realm.  For  though  God  hath  placed  you  to  be  chief 
in  making  of  laws,  to  bear  greatest  authority,  to  command  all 
others;  yet  God  doth  order  that  all  your  laws,  all  your  authority, 
all  your  commandments,  do  not  half  so  much  with  mean  men  as 
doth  your  example  and  manner  of  living.  And  for  example  even 
in  the  greatest  matter,  if  you  yourselves  do  serve  God  gladly  and 
orderly  for  conscience  sake,  not  coldly  and  sometimes  for  man- 
ners' sake,  you  carry  all  the  court  with  you  and  the  whole  realm 
beside  earnestly  and  orderly  to  do  the  same.  If  you  do  other- 
wise, you  be  the  only  authors  of  all  misorders  in  religion,  not  only 
to  the  court,  but  to  all  England  beside.  Infinite  (numbers)  shall 
be  made  cold  in  religion  by  your  example,  that  never  were  hurt 
by  reading  of  books. 

From  «The  Schoolmaster. » 


THE  LITERATURE  OF  CHIVALRY 

Saint  Paul  saith,  (<that  sects  and  ill  opinions  be  the  works  of 
the  flesh  and  fruits  of  sin."  This  is  spoken  no  more  truly 
for  the  doctrine  than  sensible  for  the  reason.  And  why  ?  For 
ill  doings  breed  ill  thinkings;  and  of  corrupted  manners  spring 
perverted  judgments.  And  how  ?  There  be  in  man  two  special 
things:  man's  will,  man's  mind.  Where  will  inclineth  to  good- 
ness, the  mind  is  bent  to  troth.  Where  will  is  carried  from 
goodness  to  vanity,  the  mind  is  soon  drawn  from  troth  to  false 


270  ROGER   ASCHAM 

opinion.  And  so,  the  readiest  way  to  entangle  the  mind  with 
false  doctrine  is  first  to  entice  the  will  to  wanton  living.  There- 
fore, when  the  busy  and  open  papists  abroad  could  not  by  their 
contentious  books  turn  men  in  England  fast  enough  from  troth 
and  right  judgment  in  doctrine,  then  the  subtle  and  secret  pap- 
ists at  home  procured  bawdy  books  to  be  translated  out  of  the 
Italian  tongue,  whereby  over  many  young  wills  and  wits  allured 
to  wantonness  do  now  boldly  contemn  all  severe  books  that 
sound  to  honesty  and  godliness. 

In  our  forefathers'  time,  when  papistry,  as  a  standing  pool, 
covered  and  overflowed  all  England,  few  books  were  read  in  our 
tongue,  saving  certain  books  of  chivalry,  as  they  said  for  pastime 
and  pleasure;  which,  as  some  say,  were  made  in  monasteries  by 
idle  monks  or  wanton  canons.  As  one  for  example,  <(  Morte 
Arthur, })  the  whole  pleasure  of  which  book  standeth  in  two  spe- 
cial points,  in  open  manslaughter  and  bold  bawdry.  In  which 
book  those  be  counted  the  noblest  knights  that  do  kill  most  men 
without  any  quarrel  and  commit  foulest  adulteries  by  subtlest 
shifts:  as  Sir  Launcelot,  with  the  wife  of  King  Arthur  his  mas- 
ter; Sir  Tristram,  with  the  wife  of  King  Mark  his  uncle;  Sir 
Lamerock,  with  the  wife  of  King  Lote,  that  was  his  own  aunt. 
This  is  good  stuff  for  wise  men  to  laugh  at,  or  honest  men  to 
take  pleasure  at;  yet  I  know,  when  God's  Bible  was  banished  the 
court,  and  <(  Morte  Arthur w  received  into  the  prince's  chamber. 

What  toys  the  daily  reading  of  such  a  book  may  work  in  the 
will  of  a  young  gentleman,  or  a  young  maid,  that  liveth  wealthily 
and  idly,  wise  men  can  judge  and  honest  men  do  pity.  And  yet 
ten  <(  Morte  Arthurs B  do  not  the  tenth  part  so  much  harm  as 
one  of  these  books  made  in  Italy  and  translated  in  England. 
They  open,  not  fond  and  common  ways  to  vice,  but  such  subtle, 
cunning,  new,  and  divers  shifts,  to  carry  young  wills  to  vanity, 
and  young  wits  to  mischief,  to  teach  old  bawds  new  school 
points,  as  the  simple  head  of  an  Englishman  is  not  able  to  in- 
vent, nor  never  was  heard  of  in  England  before,  yea,  when  pap- 
istry overflowed  all.  Suffer  these  books  to  be  read,  and  they 
shall  soon  displace  all  books  of  godly  learning.  For  they,  carry- 
ing the  will  to  vanity,  and  marring  good  manners,  shall  easily 
corrupt  the  mind  with  ill  opinions,  and  false  judgment  in  doc- 
trine; first  to  think  ill  of  all  true  religion,  and  at  last  to  think 
nothing  of  God  himself, —  one  special  point  that  is  to  be  learned 


ROGER   ASCHAM  27  I 

in  Italy  and  Italian  books.  And  that  which  is  most  to  be  la- 
mented, and  therefore  more  needful  to  be  looked  to,  there  be 
more  of  these  ungracious  books  set  out  in  print  within  these  few 
months  than  have  been  seen  in  England  many  score  years  be- 
fore. And  because  our  Englishmen  made  Italians  cannot  hurt 
but  certain  persons,  and  in  certain  places,  therefore  these  Italian 
books  are  made  English,  to  bring  mischief  enough  openly  and 
boldly  to  all  states,  great  and  mean,  young  and  old,  everywhere. 

From  «The  Schoolmaster .» 


272 


ATHEN/EUS 

(Third  Century  A.  D.) 

!he  "Deipnosophists,"  or  Banquet  of  the  Learned,  of  Athenaeus, 
is  a  collection  of  essays  in  dialogue  form,  embodying  a 
wealth  of  poetical  quotations,  some  of  them  from  authors 
whose  works,  except  for  such  quotations,  would  have  been  wholly 
lost.  It  is  for  this  that  the  work  has  been  chiefly  valued  by  scholars; 
but  its  entire  freedom  from  the  restraints  of  logical  consecutiveness, 
the  suddenness  with  which  it  changes  the  subject,  and  the  great 
variety  of  familiar  topics  it  discusses,  gives  it  a  charm  of  its  own  for 
those  who  love  the  curious  rather  than  the  elegant.  Athenasus 
lived  in  the  third  century  A.  D.,  and  it  is  believed  that  Alexandria 
was  his  birthplace.  He  lived  also  at  Rome,  but  his  ((  Deipnosophists® 
was  composed  in  Greek  and  it  is  with  Greek  literature  that  he  chiefly 
deals.  Those  who  have  made  the  count  say  that  he  quotes  from 
<(over  800  writers  and  2,400  distinct  writings. >} 


WHAT   MEN   FIGHT  ABOUT   MOST 

I  do  not  think  that  any  of  you  are  ignorant,  my  friends,  that 
the  greatest  wars  have  taken   place  on   account  of  women:  — 

the  Trojan  War  on  account  of  Helen;  the  plague  which  took 
place  in  it  was  on  account  of  Chryseis;  the  anger  of  Achilles  was 
excited  about  Briseis;  and  the  war  called  the  Sacred  War,  on  ac- 
count of  another  wife  (as  Duris  relates  in  the  second  book  of  his 
(( History w),  who  was  a  Theban  by  birth,  by  name  Theano,  and 
who  was  carried  off  by  some  Phocian.  And  this  war  also  lasted 
ten  years,  and  in  the  tenth  year  was  brought  to  an  end  by  the 
co-operation  of  Philip;  for  by  his  aid  the  Thebans  took  Phocis. 

The  war,  also,  which  is  called  the  Crissaean  War  (as  Callis- 
thenes  tells  us  in  his  account  of  the  Sacred  War),  when  the 
Crissaeans  made  war  upon  the  Phocians,  lasted  ten  years;  and  it 
was  excited  on  this  account, —  because  the  Crissaeans  carried  off 
Megisto,  the  daughter  of  Pelagon  the  Phocian,  and  the  daughters 
of  the  Argives,  as  they  were  returning  from  the  Pythian  temple; 
and  in  the  tenth   year    Crissa   was   taken.      And    whole    families 


ATHEN^EUS  273 

also  have  been  ruined  owing  to  women;  —  for  instance,  that  of 
Philip,  the  father  of  Alexander,  was  ruined  on  account  of  his 
marriage  with  Cleopatra;  and  Hercules  was  ruined  by  his  mar- 
riage with  Iole,  the  daughter  of  Eurytus;  and  Theseus  on  account 
of  his  marriage  with  Phaedra,  the  daughter  of  Minos;  and  Atha- 
mas  on  account  of  his  marriage  with  Themisto,  the  daughter  of 
Hypseus;  and  Jason  on  account  of  his  marriage  with  Glauce,  the 
daughter  of  Creon;  and  Agamemnon  on  account  of  Cassandra. 
And  the  expedition  of  Cambyses  against  Egypt  (as  Ctesias  re- 
lates) took  place  on  account  of  a  woman;  for  Cambyses,  having 
heard  that  Egyptian  women  were  far  more  attractive  than  other 
women,  sent  to  Amasis,  the  king  of  the  Egyptians,  asking  for 
one  of  his  daughters  in  marriage.  But  he  did  not  give  him  one 
of  his  own  daughters,  thinking  that  she  would  not  be  honored  as 
a  wife,  but  only  treated  as  a  mistress;  but  he  sent  him  Nitetis, 
the  daughter  of  Apries.  And  Apries  had  been  deposed  from  the 
sovereignty  of  Egypt,  because  of  the  defeats  which  had  been  re- 
ceived by  him  from  the  Cyreneans;  and  afterwards  he  had  been 
put  to  death  by  Amasis.  Accordingly,  Cambyses,  being  much 
pleased  with  Nitetis,  and  being  very  violently  in  love  with  her, 
learned  the  whole  circumstance  of  the  case  from  her;  and  she 
entreated  him  to  avenge  the  murder  of  Apries,  and  persuaded 
him  to  make  war  upon  the  Egyptians.  But  Dinon,  in  his  <(  His- 
tory of  Persia, w  and  Lynceas  of  Naucratis,  in  the  third  book  of 
his  "History  of  Egypt, w  say  that  it  was  Cyrus  to  whom  Nitetis 
was  sent  by  Amasis,  and  that  she  was  the  mother  of  Cambyses, 
who  made  this  expedition  against  Egypt  to  avenge  the  wrongs 
of  his  mother  and  her  family.  But  Duris  the  Samian  says  that 
the  first  war  carried  on  by  two  women  was  that  between  Olym- 
pias  and  Eurydice;  in  which  Olympias  advanced  something  in 
the  manner  of  a  Bacchanalian,  with  drums  beating;  but  Eurydice 
came  forward  armed  like  a  Macedonian  soldier,  having  been  al- 
ready accustomed  to  war  and  military  habits  at  the  court  of 
Cynnane  the  Illyrian. 

Now,  after  this  conversation,  it  seemed  good  to  the  philoso- 
phers who  were  present  to  say  something  themselves  about  love 
and  about  beauty;  and  so  a  great  many  philosophical  sentiments 
were  uttered;  among  which,  some  quoted  some  of  the  songs  of 
the  dramatic  philosopher,  Euripides, — some  of  which  were  these:  — 

((Love,  who  is  Wisdom's  pupil  gay, 
To  virtue  often  leads  the  way; 
1— 18 


274  ATHENyEUS 

And  this  great  god 

Is  of  all  others  far  the  best  for  man; 

For  with  his  gentle  nod 

He  bids  them  hope,  and  banishes  all  pain. 

May  I  be  ne'er  mixed  up  with  those  who  scorn 

To  own  his  power,  and  live  forlorn, 

Cherishing  habits  all  uncouth. 

I  bid  the  youth 

Of  my  dear  country  ne'er  to  flee  from  Love, 

But  welcome  him,  and  willing  subjects  prove. B 

And  some  one  else  quoted  from  Pindar :  — 

<(Let  it  be  my  fate  always  to  love, 
And  to  obey  Love's  will  in  proper  season. * 

And  some  one  else  added  the  following  lines  from  Euripides:  — 

<(  But  you,  O  mighty  Love,  of  gods  and  men 
The  sovereign  ruler,  either  bid  what's  fair 
To  seem  no  longer  fair;  or  else  bring  aid 
To  hapless  lovers  whom  you've  caused  to  love, 
And  aid  the  labors  you  yourself  have  prompted. 
If  you  do  this,  the  gods  will  honor  you; 
But  if  you  keep  aloof,  you  will  not  even 
Retain  the  gratitude  which  now  they  feel 
For  having  learnt  of  you  the  way  to  love.w 

And  Pontianus  said  that  Zeno  the  Cittiaean  thought  that  Love 
was  the  god  of  friendship  and  liberty,  and  also  that  he  was  the 
great  author  of  concord  among  men,  but  that  he  had  no  other 
office.  On  which  account,  he  says  in  his  (<  Polity, w  that  Love  is  a 
god,  being  one  who  co-operates  in  securing  the  safety  of  the  city. 
And  the  philosophers,  also,  who  preceded  him  considered  Love  a 
venerable  Deity,  removed  from  everything  discreditable;  and  this 
is  plain  from  their  having  set  up  holy  statues  in  his  honor  in 
their  gymnasia,  along  with  those  of  Mercury  and  Hercules — the 
one  of  whom  is  the  patron  of  eloquence,  and  the  other  of  valor. 
And  when  these  are  united,  friendship  and  unanimity  are  en- 
gendered; by  means  of  which  the  most  perfect  liberty  is  secured 
to  those  who  excel  in  these  practices.  But  the  Athenians  were 
so  far  from  thinking  that  love  presided  over  the  gratification  of 
the  mere  sensual  appetites,  that,  though  the  academy  was  mani- 
festly consecrated  to  Minerva,  they  yet  erected  in  that  place  also 
a  statue  of  Love,  and  sacrificed  to  it.     .     .     . 


ATHEN^EUS  275 

I  am  a  great  admirer  of  beauty  myself.  For  in  the  contests 
(at  Athens)  for  the  prize  of  manliness,  they  select  the  handsomest 
and  give  them  the  post  of  honor  to  bear  the  sacred  vessels  at 
the  festivals  of  the  gods.  And  at  Elis  there  is  a  contest  as  to 
beauty,  and  the  conqueror  has  the  vessels  of  the  goddess  given 
to  him  to  carry;  and  the  next  handsomest  has  the  ox  to  lead; 
and  the  third  places  the  sacrificial  cakes  on  the  head  of  the  vic- 
tim. But  Heraclides  Lembus  relates  that  in  Sparta  the  hand- 
somest man  and  the  handsomest  woman  have  special  honors 
conferred  on  them;  and  Sparta  is  famous  for  producing  the 
handsomest  women  in  the  world.  On  which  account  they  tell  a 
story  of  King  Archidamus,  that  when  one  wife  was  offered  to  him 
who  was  very  handsome,  and  another  who  was  ugly  but  rich, 
and  he  chose  the  rich  one,  the  ephori  imposed  a  fine  upon  him, 
saying  that  he  preferred  begetting  kinglings  rather  than  kings 
for  Spartans.     And  Euripides  has  said  — 

(<Her  very  mien  is  worthy  of  a  kingdom. B 

And  in  Homer  the  old  men  among  the  people   marveling  at  the 
beauty  of  Helen  are  represented  as  speaking  thus  to  one  another:  — 

w  They  cried,  ( No  wonder  such  celestial  charms 
For  nine  long  years  have  set  the  world  in  arms;  — 
What  winning  graces!  what  majestic  mien! 
She  moves  a  goddess,  and  she  looks  a  queen. >w 

From  the  «  Deipnosophists.9 


276 


FRANCIS   ATTERBURY 

(1662-1732) 

^rancis  Atterbury,  celebrated  as  a  controversialist  in  politics 
and  theology  and  immortalized  by  his  dispute  with  Richard 
Bentley,  was  born  in  Buckinghamshire,  England,  in  1662. 
He  was  educated  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  and,  taking  orders  in  the 
Church  of  England,  he  rose  to  be  Bishop  of  Rochester  and  Dean  of 
Westminster.  Being  detected  in  correspondence  with  the  exiled  Stu- 
arts, he  was  banished.  Much  of  his  subsequent  life  was  spent  at  the 
court  of  the  Pretender  in  Rome  or  Paris.  He  died  in  France  in  1732 
still  under  sentence  for  treason.  His  classical  scholarship  has  never 
been  conceded  by  the  partisans  of  Bentley  in  his  day  or  our  own. 
They  admit  his  wit,  his  brilliancy,  the  extraordinary  quality  of  his 
English  style,  and  everything  else  except  his  knowledge  of  the  sub- 
ject in  dispute, — the  <(  Epistles"  of  Phalaris,  which  are  not  worth  dis- 
cussing at  all  now,  even  if  they  were  then.  There  can  be  no  real 
question  of  Bentley's  scholarship,  and  it  may  be  true,  as  has  been 
said  of  Atterbury,  that  a  schoolboy  knowing  so  little  of  the  class- 
ics as  he  and  pretending  to  know  so  much  would  have  ((  deserved  to  be 
flogged  —  not  refuted. *  But  there  is  no  question  of  his  power  as  a 
writer  of  English  prose.  In  this  respect  at  least  he  was  no  unworthy 
associate  of  Pope,  Swift,  and  Addison,  whose  friend  he  was  in  the 
golden  age  of  English  essay-writing. 


HARMONY   AND   THE    PASSIONS 

Such  is  our  nature,  that  even  the  best  things,  and  most  worthy 
of  our  esteem,  do  not  always  employ  and  detain  our 
thoughts,  in  proportion  to  their  real  value,  unless  they  be 
set  off  and  greatened  by  some  outward  circumstances,  which  are 
fitted  to  raise  admiration  and  surprise  in  the  breasts  of  those 
who  hear  or  behold  them.  And  this  good  effect  is  wrought  in 
us  by  the  power  of  sacred  music.  To  it  we,  in  good  measure, 
owe  the  dignity  and  solemnity  of  our  public  worship;  which  else, 
I  fear,  in  its  natural  simplicity  and  plainness,  would  not  so 
strongly  strike,  or  so  deeply  affect,  the  minds,  as  it  ought  to  do. 


FRANCIS   ATTERBURY  277 

of  the  sluggish  and  inattentive,  that  is,  of  the  far  greater  part 
of  mankind.  But  when  voices  and  instruments  are  skillfully 
adapted  to  it,  it  appears  to  us  in  a  majestic  air  and  shape,  and 
gives  us  very  awful  and  reverent  impressions;  which,  while  they 
are  upon  us,  it  is  impossible  for  us  not  to  be  fixed  and  composed 
to  the  utmost.  We  are  then  in  the  same  state  of  mind  that  the 
devout  patriarch  was,  when  he  awoke  from  his  holy  dream,  and 
ready  with  him  to  say  to  ourselves:  Surely  the  Lord  is  in  this 
place,  and  I  knew  it  not.  How  dreadful  is  this  place !  This  is 
none  other  but  the  house  of  God,  and  this  is  the  gate  of  Heaven. 
Further,  the  availableness  of  harmony  to  promote  a  pious 
disposition  of  mind  will  appear,  from  the  great  influence  it  nat- 
urally has  on  the  passions,  which,  when  well  directed  and  rightly 
applied,  are  the  wings  and  sails  of  the  mind,  that  speed  its  pas- 
sage to  perfection,  and  are  of  particular  and  remarkable  use  in 
the  offices  of  devotion.  For  devotion  consists  in  an  ascent  of 
the  mind  towards  God,  attended  with  holy  breathings  of  soul, 
and  a  divine  exercise  of  all  the  passions  and  powers  of  the 
mind.  These  passions  the  melody  of  sounds  serves  only  to  guide 
and  elevate  towards  their  proper  object;  these  it  first  calls  forth 
and  encourages,  and  then  gradually  raises  and  inflames.  This  it 
does  to  all  of  them,  as  the  matter  of  the  hymns  sung  gives  an 
occasion  for  the  employing  them;  but  the  power  of  it  is  chiefly 
seen  in  advancing  that  most  heavenly  passion  of  love,  which 
reigns  always  in  pious  breasts,  and  is  the  surest  and  most  insep- 
arable mark  of  true  devotion;  which  recommends  what  we  do  in 
virtue  of  it  to  God,  and  makes  it  relishing  to  ourselves;  and 
without  which,  all  our  spiritual  offerings,  our  prayers,  and  our 
praises,  are  both  insipid  and  unacceptable.  At  this  our  religion 
begins,  and  at  this  it  ends;  it  is  the  sweetest  companion  and  im- 
provement of  it  here  upon  earth,  and  the  very  earnest  and  fore- 
taste of  heaven;  of  the  pleasure  of  which  nothing  further  is 
revealed  to  us,  than  that  they  consist  in  the  practice  of  holy 
music  and  holy  love;  the  joint  enjoyment  of  which  (we  are 
told)  is  to  be  the  happy  lot  of  all  pious  souls  to  endless  ages. 
And  observable  therefore  it  is,  that  that  Apostle,  in  whose  breast 
this  divine  quality  seems  most  to  have  abounded,  has  also  spoken 
the  most  advantageously  of  vocal  and  instrumental  harmony,  and 
afforded  us  the  best  argument  for  the  lawful  use  of  it;  for  such 
I  account  the  description  which  he  has  given  us  of  the  devotions 
of  angels  and  blessed  spirits  performed  by  harps  and  hymns  in 


278  FRANCIS  ATTERBURY 

the  Apocalypse.  A  description  which,  whether  real  or  metaphor- 
ical, yet,  belonging  to  the  evangelical  state,  certainly  implies  thus 
much,  that  whatever  is  there  said  to  be  made  use  of,  may  now, 
under  the  Gospel,  be  warrantably  and  laudably  employed. 

And  in  his  steps  trod  the  holy  martyr  Ignatius,  who  probably 
saw  Saint  John  in  the  flesh,  and  learned  that  lesson  of  divine 
love  from  him,  which,  after  his  example,  he  inculcated  every- 
where in  his  Epistles;  and  together  with  it  instills  into  the 
churches  he  writes  to  a  love  of  holy  harmony,  by  frequent  allu- 
sions and  comparisons  drawn  from  that  science,  which  recur 
oftener  in  his  writings  than  in  those  of  any  other  ancient  what- 
ever, and  seem  to  intimate  to  us  that  the  devotions  of  the  church 
were  set  off  with  some  kind  of  melody,  even  in  those  early 
times,  notwithstanding  we  usually  place  the  rise  of  the  institution 
much  lower. 

Would  we  then  have  love  at  these  assemblies  ?  Would  we 
have  our  spirit  softened  and  enlarged,  and  made  fit  for  the  il- 
lapses  of  the  Divine  Spirit  ?  Let  us,  as  often  as  we  can,  call 
into  our  aid  the  assistances  of  music,  to  work  us  up  into  this 
heavenly  temper.  All  selfishness  and  narrowness  of  mind,  all 
rancor  and  peevishness,  vanish  from  the  heart,  where  the  love 
of  divine  harmony  dwells;  as  the  evil  spirit  of  Saul  retired  be- 
fore the  harp  of  David.  The  devotional,  as  well  as  the  active, 
part  of  religion  is  (we  know)  founded  in  good  nature;  and  one 
of  the  best  signs  and  causes  of  good  nature  is,  I  am  sure,  to 
delight  in  such  pious  entertainments. 

From  the  text  of  Craik  [Macmillan  &  Co.]. 


JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON. 

After  the  Portrait  by  F.  Crui/c shank,  Engraved  by  C.  Turner,  A.R.A. 


Jhis  portrait  of  Audubon  has  a  rank  so  high  as  a  work  of  art  that  it 
)    has   hardly  been    surpassed    during  the   century.      The   face   it   pre- 
^||A|y§     scnts  might  stand  for  the  ideal  of  intellectual  beauty. 


279 


JOHN  JAMES   AUDUBON 

(1780-1851) 

|udubon,  the  first  great  student  of  nature  born  in  North  Amer- 
ica, had  a  delicate  sense  of  the  beautiful,  and  he  gave  it 
expression  in  semi-poetical  prose  which  is  often  excellent 
as  literature,  in  spite  of  the  obvious  influence  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson 
and  his  school  were  then  exercising  on  American  prose.  In  spite  of 
their  Latinisms,  such  sketches  and  essays  as  those  on  « The  Mock- 
ing Bird,"  «The  Humming  Bird,"  and  «  The  Wood  Thrush »  are  not 
likely  to  lose  the  popularity  they  have  long  enjoyed. 

Audubon  was  born  near  New  Orleans,  May  4th,  1780.  Educated  in 
France,  he  studied  art  under  the  celebrated  painter  David,  gaining 
thus  the  skill  which  gave  a  world-wide  and  enduring  celebrity  to  his 
<(  Birds  of  America, »  the  greatest  achievement  of  its  kind  in  the 
history  of  scientific  research.  His  "Ornithological  Biography, »  which 
was  published  from  1831  to  1839  in  five  volumes,  is  the  source  of 
much  from  his  pen  that  has  gained  general  circulation.  His  «  Birds 
of  America "  —  the  result  of  his  explorations  of  a  continent  which 
everywhere,  except  on  the  Atlantic  coast,  was  then  almost  a  wilder- 
ness—  was  published  (1827-39)  by  subscription  at  $1,000  a  copy.  He 
died  at  New  York,  January  27th,  1851.  (<  The  Quadrupeds  of  Amer- 
ica," the  final  sheets  of  which  were  printed  in  1854,  is  not  wholly  his 
work. 


THE   HUMMING   BIRD   AND   THE    POETRY   OF   SPRING 

No  sooner  has  the  returning  sun  again  introduced  the  vernal 
season,  and  caused  millions  of  plants  to  expand  their  leaves 
and  blossoms  to  his  genial  beams,  than  the  little  Humming 
Bird  is  seen  advancing  on  fairy  wings,  carefully  visiting  every 
opening  flower-cup,  and,  like  a  curious  florist,  removing  from 
each  the  injurious  insects  that  otherwise  would  ere  long  cause 
their  beauteous  petals  to  droop  and  decay.  Poised  in  the  air,  it 
is  observed  peeping  cautiously,  and  with  sparkling  eyes,  into  their 
innermost  recesses,  whilst  the  ethereal  motions  of  its  pinions,  so 
rapid  and  so  light,  appear  to  fan  and  cool  the  flower  without 
injuring  its  fragile  texture,  and  produce  a  delightful  murmuring 


280  JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON 

sound  well  adapted  for  lulling  insects  to  repose.  Then  is  the 
moment  for  the  Humming  Bird  to  secure  them.  Its  long,  delicate 
bill  enters  the  cup  of  the  flower,  and  the  protruded  double-tubed 
tongue,  delicately  sensitive,  and  imbued  with  glutinous  saliva, 
touches  each  insect  in  succession  and  draws  it  from  its  lurking 
place  to  be  instantly  swallowed.  All  this  is  done  in  a  moment, 
and  the  bird,  as  it  leaves  the  flower,  sips  so  small  a  portion  of 
its  liquid  honey,  that  the  theft,  we  may  suppose,  is  looked  upon 
with  a  grateful  feeling  by  the  flower,  which  is  thus  kindly  re- 
lieved from  the  attacks  of  her  destroyers. 

The  prairies,  the  fields,  the  orchards,  and  gardens,  nay,  the 
deepest  shades  of  the  forests,  are  all  visited  in  their  turn,  and 
everywhere  the  little  bird  meets  with  pleasure  and  with  food. 
Its  gorgeous  throat  in  beauty  and  brilliancy  baffles  all  competi- 
tion. Now  it  glows  with  a  fiery  hue,  and  again  it  is  changed  to 
the  deepest  velvety  black.  The  upper  parts  of  its  delicate  body 
are  of  resplendent  changing  green;  and  it  throws  itself  through 
the  air  with  a  swiftness  and  vivacity  hardly  conceivable.  It  moves 
from  one  flower  to  another  like  a  gleam  of  light,  upwards,  down- 
wards, to  the  right,  and  to  the  left.  In  this  manner  it  searches 
the  extreme  northern  portions  of  our  country,  following  with 
great  precaution  the  advances  of  the  season,  and  retreating  with 
equal  care  at  the  approach  of  autumn. 

I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  at  this  moment  to  impart  to  you, 
kind  reader,  the  pleasures  which  I  have  felt  whilst  watching  the 
movements,  and  viewing  the  manifestation  of  feelings  displayed 
by  a  single  pair  of  these  most  favored  little  creatures,  when  en- 
gaged in  the  demonstration  of  their  love  to  each  other:  —  how 
the  male  swells  his  plumage  and  throat,  and,  dancing  on  the 
wing,  whirls  around  the  delicate  female;  how  quickly  he  dives 
towards  a  flower,  and  returns  with  a  loaded  bill,  which  he  offers 
to  her  to  whom  alone  he  feels  desirous  of  being  united;  how 
full  of  ecstasy  he  seems  to  be  when  his  caresses  are  kindly  re- 
ceived; how  his  little  wings  fan  her,  as  they  fan  the  flowers,  as 
he  transfers  to  her  bill  the  insect  and  the  honey  which  he  has 
procured  with  a  view  to  please  her;  how  these  attentions  are  re- 
ceived with  apparent  satisfaction;  how,  soon  after,  the  blissful 
compact  is  sealed;  how,  then,  the  courage  and  care  of  the  male 
are  redoubled;  how  he  even  dares  to  give  chase  to  the  tyrant 
fly-catcher,  hurries  the  bluebird  and  the  martin  to  their  boxes; 
and  how,  on  sounding  pinions,  he  joyously  returns  to  the  side  of 


JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON  281 

his  lovely  mate.  Reader,  all  these  proofs  of  the  sincerity,  fidel- 
ity, and  courage,  with  which  the  male  assures  his  mate  of  the 
care  he  will  take  of  her  while  sitting  on  her  nest,  may  be  seen, 
and  have  been  seen,  but  cannot  be  portrayed  or  described. 

Could  you,  kind  reader,  cast  a  momentary  glance  on  the  nest 
of  the  Humming  Bird,  and  see,  as  I  have  seen,  the  newly  hatched 
pair  of  young,  little  larger  than  humblebees,  naked,  blind,  and  so 
feeble  as  scarcely  to  be  able  to  raise  their  little  bills  to  receive 
food  from  the  parents;  and  could  you  see  those  parents,  full  of 
anxiety  and  fear,  passing  and  repassing  within  a  few  inches  of 
your  face,  alighting  on  a  twig  not  more  than  a  yard  from  your 
body,  waiting  the  result  of  your  unwelcome  visit  in  a  state  of 
the  utmost  despair, —  you  could  not  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the 
deepest  pangs  which  parental  affection  feels  on  the  unexpected 
death  of  a  cherished  child.  Then  how  pleasing  is  it,  on  your 
leaving  the  spot,  to  see  the  returning  hope  of  the  parents,  when, 
after  examining  the  nest,  they  find  their  nurslings  untouched! 
You  might  then  judge  how  pleasing  it  is  to  a  mother  of  another 
kind,  to  hear  the  physician  who  has  attended  her  sick  child 
assure  her  that  the  crisis  is  over  and  that  her  babe  is  saved. 
These  are  the  scenes  best  fitted  to  enable  us  to  partake  of  sor- 
row and  joy,  and  to  determine  every  one  who  views  them  to 
make  it  a  study  to  contribute  to  the  happiness  of  others,  and  to 
refrain  from  wantonly  or  maliciously  giving  them  pain. 


LIFE   IN   THE  WOODS 

The  adventures  and  vicissitudes  which  have  fallen  to  my  lot, 
instead  of  tending  to  diminish  the  fervid  enthusiasm  of  my 
nature,  have  imparted  a  toughness  to  my  bodily  constitution, 
naturally  strong,  and  to  my  mind,  naturally  buoyant,  an  elasticity 
such  as  to  assure  me  that  though  somewhat  old,  and  considerably 
denuded  in  the  frontal  region,  I  could  yet  perform  on  foot  a 
journey  of  any  length,  were  I  sure  that  I  should  thereby  add 
materially  to  our  knowledge  of  the  ever-interesting  creatures 
which  have  for  so  long  a  time  occupied  my  thoughts  by  day, 
and  filled  my  dreams  with  pleasant  images.  Nay,  reader,  had  I 
a  new  lease  of  life  presented  to  me,  I  should  choose  for  it  the 
very  occupations  in  which  I  have  been  engaged. 


282  JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON 

And,  reader,  the  life  which  I  have  led  has  been  in  some  re- 
spects a  singular  one.  Think  of  a  person,  intent  on  such  pur- 
suits as  mine  have  been,  aroused  at  early  dawn  from  his  rude 
couch  on  the  alder-fringed  brook  of  some  northern  valley,  or  in 
the  midst  of  some  yet  unexplored  forest  of  the  West,  or  perhaps 
on  the  soft  and  warm  sands  of  the  Florida  shores,  and  listening 
to  the  pleasing  melodies  of  songsters  innumerable  saluting  the 
magnificent  orb,  from  whose  radiant  influence  the  creatures  of 
many  worlds  receive  life  and  light.  Refreshed  and  reinvigorated 
by  healthful  rest,  he  starts  upon  his  feet,  gathers  up  his  store  of 
curiosities,  buckles  on  his  knapsack,  shoulders  his  trusty  firelock, 
says  a  kind  word  to  his  faithful  dog,  and  recommences  his  pur- 
suit of  zoological  knowledge.  Now  the  morning  is  spent,  and  a 
squirrel  or  a  trout  affords  him  a  repast.  Should  the  day  be  warm, 
he  reposes  for  a  time  under  the  shade  of  some  tree.  The  wood- 
land choristers  again  burst  forth  into  song,  and  he  starts  anew  to 
wander  wherever  his  fancy  may  direct  him,  or  the  objects  of  his 
search  may  lead  him  in  pursuit.  When  evening  approaches,  and 
the  birds  are  seen  betaking  themselves  to  their  retreats,  he  looks 
for  some  place  of  safety,  erects  his  shed  of  green  boughs,  kindles 
his  fire,  prepares  his  meal,  and  as  the  widgeon  or  blue-winged 
teal,  or  perhaps  the  breast  of  a  turkey  or  a  steak  of  venison, 
sends  its  delicious  perfumes  abroad,  he  enters  into  his  parchment- 
bound  journal  the  remarkable  incidents  and  facts  that  have  oc- 
curred in  the  course  of  the  day.  Darkness  has  now  drawn  her 
sable  curtain  over  the  scene;  his  repast  is  finished,  and,  kneeling 
on  the  earth,  he  raises  his  soul  to  heaven,  grateful  for  the  pro- 
tection that  has  been  granted  to  him,  and  the  sense  of  the  divine 
presence  in  this  solitary  place.  Then  wishing  a  cordial  good 
night  to  all  the  dear  friends  at  home,  the  American  woodsman 
wraps  himself  up  in  his  blanket,  and,  closing  his  eyes,  soon  falls 
into  that  comfortable  sleep  which  never  fails  him  on  such  occa- 
sions. 


THE   MOCKING   BIRD 

It   is  where   the  great   magnolia    shoots   up   its   majestic   trunk, 
crowned  with    evergreen  leaves,  and   decorated    with  a  thou- 
sand  beautiful   flowers,  that   perfume   the  air  around;    where 
the  forests  and  fields  are  adorned  with  blossoms  of  every  hue; 
where   the    golden    orange    ornaments    the    gardens    and    groves; 


JOHN   JAMES   AUDUBON  283 

where  bignonias  of  various  kinds  interlace  their  climbing  stems 
around  the  white-flowered  stuartia,  and,  mounting  still  higher, 
cover  the  summits  of  the  lofty  trees  around,  accompanied  with 
innumerable  vines  that  here  and  there  festoon  the  dense  foliage 
of  the  magnificent  woods,  lending  to  the  vernal  breeze  a  slight 
portion  of  the  perfume  of  their  clustered  flowers;  where  a  genial 
warmth  seldom  forsakes  the  atmosphere;  where  berries  and  fruits 
of  all  descriptions  are  met  with  at  every  step;  —  in  a  word,  it  is 
where  Nature  seems  to  have  paused,  as  she  passed  over  the 
earth,  and,  opening  her  stores,  to  have  strewed  with  unsparing 
hand  the  diversified  seeds  from  which  have  sprung  all  the  beau- 
tiful and  splendid  forms  which  I  should  in  vain  attempt  to  de- 
scribe, that  the  Mocking  Bird  should  have  fixed  its  abode, —  there 
only  that  its  wondrous  song  should  be  heard. 

But  where  is  that  favored  land  ?  It  is  in  that  great  conti- 
nent to  whose  distant  shores  Europe  has  sent  forth  her  adven- 
turous sons,  to  wrest  for  themselves  a  habitation  from  the  wild 
inhabitants  of  the  forest,  and  to  convert  the  neglected  soil  into 
fields  of  exuberant  fertility.  It  is,  reader,  in  Louisiana  that  these 
bounties  of  nature  are  in  the  greatest  perfection.  It  is  there 
that  you  should  listen  to  the  love  song  of  the  Mocking  Bird,  as 
I  at  this  moment  do.  See  how  he  flies  round  his  mate,  with 
motions  as  light  as  those  of  the  butterfly!  His  tail  is  widely  ex- 
panded, he  mounts  in  the  air  to  a  small  distance,  describes  a 
circle,  and,  again  alighting,  approaches  his  beloved  one,  his  eyes 
gleaming  with  delight,  for  she  has  already  promised  to  be  his 
and  his  only.  His  beautiful  wings  are  gently  raised,  he  bows  to 
his  love,  and,  again  bouncing  upwards,  opens  his  bill  and  pours 
forth  his  melody,  full  of  exultation  at  the  conquest  he  has  made. 

They  are  not  the  soft  sounds  of  the  flute  or  the  hautboy  that 
I  hear,  but  the  sweeter  notes  of  nature's  own  music.  The  mel- 
lowness of  the  song,  the  varied  modulations  and  gradations,  the 
extent  of  its  compass,  the  great  brilliancy  of  execution,  are  un- 
rivaled. There  is  probably  no  bird  in  the  world  that  possesses 
all  the  musical  qualifications  of  this  king  of  song,  who  has  derived 
all  from  nature's  self.     Yes,  reader,  all! 

No  sooner  has  he  again  alighted,  and  the  conjugal  contract 
has  been  sealed,  than,  as  if  his  breast  were  about  to  be  rent  with 
delight,  he  again  pours  forth  his  notes  with  more  softness  and 
richness  than  before.  He  now  soars  higher,  glancing  around 
with    a  vigilant   eye,  to   assure   himself   that   none  has  witnessed 


284  JOHN  JAMES   AUDUBON 

his  bliss.  When  these  love  scenes  are  over,  he  dances  through 
the  air,  full  of  animation  and  delight,  and,  as  if  to  convince  his 
lovely  mate  that  to  enrich  her  hopes  he  has  much  more  love  in 
store,  he  that  moment  begins  anew,  and  imitates  all  the  notes 
which  nature  has  imparted  to  the  other  songsters  of  the  grove. 

The  musical  powers  of  this  bird  have  often  been  taken  notice 
of  by  European  naturalists,  and  persons  who  find  pleasure  in 
listening  to  the  song  of  different  birds  whilst  in  confinement  or 
at  large.  Some  of  these  persons  have  described  the  notes  of  the 
nightingale  as  occasionally  fully  equal  to  those  of  our  bird.  I 
have  frequently  heard  both  species  in  confinement,  and  in  the 
wild  state,  and,  without  prejudice,  have  no  hesitation  in  pronounc- 
ing the  notes  of  the  European  philomel  equal  to  those  of  a 
soubrette  of  taste,  which,  could  she  study  under  a  Mozart,  might 
perhaps  in  time  become  very  interesting  in  her  way.  But  to 
compare  her  essays  to  the  finished  talent  of  the  Mocking  Bird,  is, 
in  my  opinion,  quite  absurd. 


THE  WOOD  THRUSH 

This  bird  is  my  greatest  favorite  of  the  feathered  tribes  of  our 
woods.  To  it  I  owe  much.  How  often  has  it  revived  my 
drooping  spirits,  when  I  have  listened  to  its  wild  notes  in 
the  forest,  after  passing  a  restless  night  in  my  slender  shed,  so 
feebly  secured  against  the  violence  of  the  storm  as  to  show  me 
the  futility  of  my  best  efforts  to  rekindle  my  little  fire,  whose 
uncertain  and  vacillating  light  had  gradually  died  away  under  the 
destructive  weight  of  the  dense  torrents  of  rain  that  seemed  to 
involve  the  heavens  and  the  earth  in  one  mass  of  fearful  murki- 
ness,  save  when  the  red  streaks  of  the  flashing  thunderbolt  burst 
on  the  dazzled  eye,  and,  glancing  along  the  huge  trunk  of  the 
stateliest  and  noblest  tree  in  my  immediate  neighborhood,  were 
instantly  followed  by  an  uproar  of  crackling,  crashing,  and  deaf- 
ening sounds,  rolling  their  volumes  in  tumultuous  eddies  far  and 
near,  as  if  to  silence  the  very  breathings  of  the  unformed 
thought!  How  often,  after  such  a  night,  when  far  from  my  dear 
home,  and  deprived  of  the  presence  of  those  nearest  to  my  heart, 
wearied,  hungry,  drenched,  and  so  lonely  and  desolate  as  almost 
to  question  myself  why   I   was  thus  situated;    when   I   have   seen 


JOHN  JAMES   AUDUBON  285 

the  fruits  of  my  labors  on  the  eve  of  being  destroyed,  as  the 
water,  collected  into  a  stream,  rushed  through  my  little  camp, 
and  forced  me  to  stand  erect,  shivering  in  a  cold  fit  like  that  of 
a  severe  ague;  when  I  have  been  obliged  to  wait  with  the  pa- 
tience of  a  martyr  for  the  return  of  day,  silently  counting  over 
the  years  of  my  youth,  doubting  perhaps  if  ever  again  I  should 
return  to  my  home,  and  embrace  my  family !  —  how  often,  as  the 
first  glimpses  of  morning  gleamed  doubtfully  amongst  the  dusky 
masses  of  the  forest  trees,  has  there  come  upon  my  ear,  thrilling 
along  the  sensitive  cords  which  connect  that  organ  with  the 
heart,  the  delightful  music  of  this  harbinger  of  day!  —  and  how 
fervently,  on  such  occasions,  have  I  blessed  the  Being  who 
formed  the  Wood  Thrush,  and  placed  it  in  those  solitary  forests, 
as  if  to  console  me  amidst  my  privations,  to  cheer  my  depressed 
mind,  and  to  make  me  feel,  as  I  did,  that  man  never  should 
despair,  whatever  may  be  his  situation,  as  he  can  never  be  cer- 
tain that  aid  and  deliverance  are  not  at  hand. 

The  Wood  Thrush  seldom  commits  a  mistake  after  such  a 
storm  as  I  have  attempted  to  describe;  for  no  sooner  are  its 
sweet  notes  heard  than  the  heavens  gradually  clear,  the  bright 
refracted  light  rises  in  gladdening  rays  from  beneath  the  distant 
horizon,  the  effulgent  beams  increase  in  their  intensity,  and  the 
great  orb  of  day  at  length  bursts  on  the  sight.  The  gray  vapor 
that  floats  along  the  ground  is  quickly  dissipated,  the  world 
smiles  at  the  happy  change,  and  the  woods  are  soon  heard  to 
echo  the  joyous  thanks  of  their  many  songsters.  At  that  moment 
all  fears  vanish,  giving  place  to  an  inspiriting  hope.  The  hunter 
prepares  to  leave  his  camp.  He  listens  to  the  Wood  Thrush, 
while  he  thinks  of  the  course  which  he  ought  to  pursue,  and  as 
the  bird  approaches  to  peep  at  him,  and  learn  somewhat  his  in- 
tentions, he  raises  his  mind  toward  the  Supreme  Disposer  of 
events.  Seldom,  indeed,  have  I  heard  the  song  of  this  Thrush, 
without  feeling  all  that  tranquillity  of  mind  to  which  the  se- 
cluded situation  in  which  it  delights  is  so  favorable.  The  thick- 
est and  darkest  woods  always  appear  to  please  it  best.  The 
borders  of  murmuring  streamlets,  overshadowed  by  the  dense 
foliage  of  the  lofty  trees  growing  on  the  gentle  declivities,  amidst 
which  the  sunbeams  seldom  penetrate,  are  its  favorite  resorts. 
There  it  is,  that  the  musical  powers  of  this  hermit  of  the  woods 
must  be  heard,  to  be  fully  appreciated  and  enjoyed. 

From  the  «  Ornithological  Biography. » 


286 


SAINT  AUGUSTINE 

(354-430  A.  D.) 

'aint  Augustine's  celebrated  work,  wThe  City  of  God,"  or  (<  De 
Civitate  Dei,*'  is  a  collection  of  essays  loosely  joined  by 
a  thread  of  argument  connecting  one  (<  book w  with  another. 
Although  he  was  essentially  a  Latinist,  his  style  as  an  essayist  is  much 
more  closely  related  to  the  English  of  Addison  than  to  the  more  ora- 
torical style  of  Cicero.  As  a  theologian  he  is  conceded  to  have  been 
the  greatest  of  the  Latin  Fathers,  and  his  <c  Confessions  B  have  achieved 
a  more  extensive  popularity  than  any  other  work  of  the  period  which 
produced  them.  He  was  born  in  Numidia,  November  13th,  354  A.  D., 
and  died  in  the  same  province  August  28th,  430  A.  D.  He  lived 
successively  at  Carthage,  Rome,  Milan,  and  Hippo  in  Numidia  where 
he  served  the  church  as  bishop  from  395  A.  D.  to  his  death.  During 
his  earlier  years  he  was  a  teacher  of  rhetoric.  After  his  conversion 
(387  A.  D.)  he  became  one  of  the  most  ardent  champions  of  Chris- 
tianity and  the  object  of  the  (<  De  Civitate  Dei  *  was  to  demonstrate 
the  necessity  for  a  higher  religion  to  supplant  the  heathen  culture. 


CONCERNING  IMPERIAL  POWER  AND  THE  KINGDOM  OF  GOD 

Let  us  examine  the  nature  of  the  spaciousness,  and  continuance 
of  empire,  for  which  men  give  their  gods  such  great  thanks; 
to  whom  also  they  exhibited  plays  (that  were  so  filthy  both  in 
actors  and  the  action)  without  any  offense  of  honesty.  But,  first, 
I  would  make  a  little  inquiry,  seeing  you  cannot  show  such  es- 
tates to  be  anyway  happy,  as  are  in  continual  wars,  being  still  in 
terror,  trouble,  and  guilt  of  shedding  human  blood,  though  it  be 
their  foes;  what  reason  then  or  what  wisdom  shall  any  man 
show  in  glorying  in  the  largeness  of  empire,  all  their  joy  being 
but  as  a  glass,  bright  and  brittle,  and  evermore  in  fear  and  dan- 
ger of  breaking  ?  To  dive  the  deeper  into  this  matter,  let  us  not 
give  the  sails  of  our  souls  to  every  air  of  human  breath,  nor  suf- 
fer our  understanding's  eye  to  be  smoked  up  with  the  fumes  of 
vain   words,  concerning   kingdoms,  provinces,  nations,  or  so.     No, 


SAINT  AUGUSTINE  287 

let  us  take  two  men,  let  us  imagine  the  one  to  be  poor,  or  but 
of  a  mean  estate,  the  other  potent  and  wealthy;  but  withal,  let 
my  wealthy  man  take  with  him  fears,  sorrows,  covetousness,  sus- 
picion, disquiet,  contentions, — let  these  be  the  books  for  him  to 
hold  in  the  augmentation  of  his  estate,  and  with  all  the  increase 
of  those  cares,  together  with  his  estate ;  and  let  my  poor  man  take 
with  him,  sufficiency  with  little,  love  of  kindred,  neighbors,  friends, 
joyous  peace,  peaceful  religion,  soundness  of  body,  sincereness 
of  heart,  abstinence  of  diet,  chastity  of  carriage,  and  security  of 
conscience.  Where  should  a  man  find  any  one  so  sottish  as  would 
make  a  doubt  which  of  these  to  prefer  in  his  choice  ?  Well, 
then,  even  as  we  have  done  with  these  two  men,  so  let  us  do 
with  two  families,  two  nations,  or  two  kingdoms.  Lay  them  both 
to  the  line  of  equity;  which  done,  and  duly  considered,  when  it 
is  done,  here  doth  vanity  lie  bare  to  the  view,  and  there  shines 
felicity.  Wherefore  it  is  more  convenient  that  such  as  fear  and 
follow  the  law  of  the  true  God  should  have  the  swaying  of  such 
empires;  not  so  much  for  themselves,  their  piety  and  their  hon- 
esty (God's  admired  gifts)  will  suffice  them,  both  to  the  enjoying 
of  true  felicity  in  this  life  and  the  attaining  of  that  eternal  and 
true  felicity  in  the  next.  So  that  here  upon  earth,  the  rule  and 
regality  that  is  given  to  the  good  man  does  not  return  him  so 
much  good  as  it  does  to  those  that  are  under  this  his  rule  and 
regality.  But,  contrariwise,  the  government  of  the  wicked  harms 
themselves  far  more  than  their  subjects,  for  it  gives  themselves 
the  greater  liberty  to  exercise  their  lusts;  but  for  their  subjects, 
they  have  none  but  their  own  iniquities  to  answer  for;  for  what 
injury  soever  the  unrighteous  master  does  to  the  righteous  ser- 
vant, it  is  no  scourge  for  his  guilt,  but  a  trial  of  his  virtue.  And 
therefore  he  that  is  good  is  free,  though  he  be  a  slave;  and  he 
that  is  evil,  a  slave  though  he  be  a  king.  Nor  is  he  slave  to  one 
man,  but  that  which  is  worst  of  all,  unto  as  many  masters  as  he 
affects  vices;  according  to  the  Scriptures,  speaking  thus  hereof: 
<(  Of  whatsoever  a  man  is  overcome,  to  that  he  is  in  bondage. }> 

Chapter  iii.,  Book  IV.,  «  De  Civitate  Dei.» 


288  SAINT  AUGUSTINE 

KINGDOMS    WITHOUT    JUSTICE    LIKE    UNTO     THIEVISH    PUR- 
CHASES 

Set  justice  aside,  and  what  are  kingdoms  but  fair  thievish  pur- 
chases? because  what  are  thieves'  purchases  but  little  king- 
doms ?  for  in  thefts  the  hands  of  the  underlings  are  directed 
by  the  commander,  the  confederacy  of  them  is  sworn  together, 
and  the  pillage  is  shared  by  the  law  amongst  them.  And  if 
those  ragamuffins  grow  but  to  be  able  enough  to  keep  up  forts, 
build  habitations,  possess  cities,  and  conquer  adjoining  nations, 
then  their  government  is  no  more  called  thievish,  but  graced 
with  the  eminent  name  of  a  kingdom,  given  and  gotten,  not  be- 
cause they  have  left  their  practices,  but  because  that  now  they 
may  use  them  without  danger  of  law;  for  elegant  and  excellent 
was  that  pirate's  answer  to  the  great  Macedonian  Alexander,  who 
had  taken  him;  the  king  asking  him  how  he  durst  molest  the 
seas  so,  he  replied  with  a  free  spirit,  <(  How  darest  thou  molest 
the  whole  world  ?  But  because  I  do  it  with  a  little  ship  only,  I 
am  called  a  thief;  thou  doing  it  with  a  great  navy,  art  called  an 

emperor. w 

Chapter  iv.,  Book  IV.,  «De  Civitate  Dei.» 


DOMESTIC   MANIFESTATIONS   OF  THE    ROMAN   SPIRIT   OF 

CONQUEST 

When  Marius,  being  imbrued  with  his  countrymen's  blood 
and  having  slain  many  of  his  adversaries,  was  at  length 
foiled  and  forced  to  fly  the  city,  that  now  got  time  to  take 
a  little  breath;  presently  (to  use  Tully's  words)  upon  the  sudden 
Cinna  and  Marius  began  to  be  conquerors  again.  And  then  out 
went  the  heart  bloods  of  the  most  worthy  men,  and  the  lights 
of  all  the  city.  But  soon  after  came  Sylla,  and  revenged  this 
barbarous  massacre;  but  with  what  damage  to  the  state  and  city 
it  is  not  my  purpose  to  utter;  for  that  this  revenge  was  worse 
than  if  all  the  offenses  that  were  punished  had  been  left  un- 
punished.    Let  Lucan  testify,  in  these  words  :  — 

<(  Excessit  medicina  modum,  nimiumque  secuta  est 
Qua  morbi  duxere  manus;  periere  nocentes 
Sed  cum  jam  soli  possent  superesse  nocentes 
Tunc  data  libertas  odiis  resolutaque  legum 
Fretiis  ira  ru/t.r> 


SAINT   AUGUSTINE  289 

<(The  medicine  wrought  too  sore,  making  the  cure 
Too  cruel  for  the  patient  to  endure; 
The  guilty  fell;   but  none  yet  such  remaining, 
Hate  riseth  at  full  height,  and  wrath,  disdaining 
Laws'  reins,  brake  out.0 

For  in  that  war  of  Sylla  and  Marius  (besides  those  that  fell  in 
the  field),  the  whole  city,  streets,  market  places,  theatres,  and 
temples  were  filled  with  dead  bodies;  that  it  was  a  question 
whether  the  conquerors  slaughtered  so  many  to  attain  the  con- 
quest, or  because  they  had  already  attained  it.  In  Marius's  first 
victory,  as  his  return  from  exile  besides  infinite  other  slaughters, 
Octavius's  head  (the  consul's)  was  polled  up  in  the  pleading 
place;  Csesar  and  Fimbra  were  slain  in  their  houses,  the  two 
Crassi,  father  and  son,  killed  in  one  another's  sight;  Bebius  and 
Numitorius  trailed  about  upon  hooks  till  death;  Catullus  poisoned 
himself  to  escape  his  enemies:  and  Menula,  the  jovial  Flamine, 
cut  his  own  veins  and  so  bled  himself  out  of  their  danger, 
Marius  having  given  order  for  the  killing  of  all  them  whom  he 
did  not  re-salute,  or  proffer  his  hand  unto. 

Chapter  xvii.,  Book  III.,  «De  Civitate  Dei.» 
1— 19 


290 


MARCUS  AURELIUS 

(Marcus  Aurelius  Antoninus) 

{c.  121-180  A.  D.) 

js  a  horse  when  he  has  run,  a  dog  when  he  has  tackled  the 
game,  a  bee  when  it  has  made  honey,  so  a  (good)  man  when 
he  has  done  a  good  act  does  not  call  out  to  others  to  come 
and  see,  but  goes  on  to  another  act  as  a  vine  goes  on  to  produce 
again  its  grapes  in  season. w 

This  is  Long's  translation  of  what  is  perhaps  the  most  remarkable 
sentence  in  the  writings  of  Marcus  Aurelius.  To  the  question  of  what 
is  the  highest  good,  the  greatest  happiness  possible  for  life,  the  Stoics 
answered  (<  tranquillity,0  —  the  peaceful  repose  in  itself  of  the  mind 
great  enough  to  be  superior  to  the  inevitable  at  its  worst.  But  in 
this  sentence  the  Stoic  who  has  been  called  (<  the  noblest  of  the  pa- 
gans, the  crown  and  flower  of  Stoicism,"  clearly  proposes  efficiency  as 
the  object  of  life.  To  work  as  the  vine  bears  its  fruit  and  then,  with- 
out stopping  for  praise  or  blame,  to  prepare  for  new  bearing  as  the 
natural  object  and  reward  of  existence, —  this  is  an  ideal  higher  than 
that  of  self-repression,  for  it  involves  self-expression,  the  develop- 
ment of  all  that  is  positive  and  noble  at  the  expense  of  the  evil  and 
merely  negative  forces  of  life.  That  the  highest  possible  efficiency  is 
ever  to  be  attained  except  through  the  deliberate  sacrifice,  for  the 
work's  sake,  of  the  peace  of  a  mind  at  rest  in  itself,  —  this  is  not  to 
be  believed  for  human  nature  at  its  average,  though  it  is  not  to  be 
denied  as  a  possibility.  If  Polycarp  or  any  martyr  who  died  in  the 
persecutions  under  Aurelius,  died  not  merely  to  win  a  <(  martyr's 
crown, w  but  for  the  work's  sake, —  for  the  sake  of  the  efficiency  of 
those  after  him  who,  taught  by  him,  were  to  build,  more  wisely  than 
they  knew,  the  fabric  of  the  coming  centuries,  then  his  loss  of  per- 
sonal tranquillity  was  not  important  to  the  sum  of  things.  The 
always  increasing  satisfaction  of  always  increasing  efficiency,  obtained 
at  the  expense  of  all  manner  of  intellectual  disturbance  and  physical 
discomfort, — this  is  what  Aurelius,  in  the  definitions  of  his  fourth 
book,  seems  to  contemplate  as  the  highest  good.  (<  Dost  thou  not  see 
the  little  plants,  the  little  birds,  the  ants,  the  spiders,  the  bees,  work- 
ing together  to  put  in  order  their  several  parts  of  the  universe  ? 
And  art  thou  unwilling  to  do  the  work  of  a  human  being,  and   dost 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  291 

thou  not  make  haste  to  do  that  which  is  according  to  thy  nature  ? B 
This  is  his  question  and  it  involves  a  higher  thought  than  any  possi- 
ble for  the  Stoicism  of  self-suppression.  It  is  the  idea  of  education, 
of  the  evolution  of  the  good  in  a  universe  where  bee  and  bird,  flower 
and  fruit,  men  and  gods,  are  vehicles  of  a  universal  force  of  bene- 
ficent activity,  making  for  universal  goodness  and  eternal  improve- 
ment. 

Marcus  Annius  Verus,  as  Marcus  Aurelius  was  named  originally, 
was  born  at  Rome  April  20th,  121  A.  D.,  from  a  family  of  senatorial 
rank  which  succeeded  to  the  imperial  dignity  by  Hadrian's  adoption 
of  Antoninus  Pius.  When  Antoninus  Pius,  the  uncle  of  Aurelius, 
died  in  161  A.  D.,  after  succeeding  Hadrian  on  the  throne,  Aurelius 
succeeded  him,  reigning  until  his  own  death  March  17th,  180  A.  D. 
He  did  not  neglect  his  work  as  (<  Imperator B  of  the  armies  of  Rome 
because  of  his  philosophy;  and  when  he  died,  it  was  the  death  of  a 
veteran  soldier  in  camp  at  Vindobona  (now  Vienna),  far  from  the 
comforts  of  Roman  civilization.  He  has  been  reproached  with  perse- 
cuting the  Christians  and  defended  on  the  ground  that  he  thought 
them  dangerous  anarchists,  whose  theories  were  irreconcilable  with 
the  authority  of  his  government.  It  has  been  asserted  also  that  his 
wife,  the  Empress  Faustina,  was  very  dissolute,  and  while  this  has 
been  denied,  it  is  undeniable  that  his  son,  Commodus,  for  whom  the 
(<  Meditations w  are  said  to  have  been  written,  was  one  of  the  weak- 
est and  worst  of  Roman  tyrants.  While  this  has  been  dwelt  on  with 
some  satisfaction  by  those  who  are  disposed  to  condemn  the  philoso- 
phy of  Marcus  Aurelius,  it  leaves  him  still  <(a  pagan  saint w  whose 
intellect,  elevated,  pure,  and  strong,  remains  to  us  in  his  <(  Medita- 
tions M  as  one  of  the  great  and  permanent  forces  of  civilization. 

W.  V.  B. 


MEDITATIONS   ON   THE    HIGHEST    USEFULNESS 

In  the  morning  when  thou  risest  unwillingly,  let  this  thought 
be  present, —  I  am  rising  to  the  work  of  a  human  being. 
Why  then  am  I  dissatisfied  if  I  am  going  to  do  the  things 
for  which  I  exist  and  for  which  I  was  brought  into  the  world  ? 
Or  have  I  been  made  for  this,  to  lie  in  the  bedclothes  and  keep 
myself  warm  ?  But  this  is  more  pleasant.  Dost  thou  exist  then 
to  take  thy  pleasure,  and  not  at  all  for  action  or  exertion  ?  Dost 
thou  not  see  the  little  plants,  the  little  birds,  the  ants,  the  spiders, 
the  bees  working  together  to  put  in  order  their  several  parts  of 
the  universe  ?  And  art  thou  unwilling  to  do  the  work  of  a  hu- 
man  being,  and   dost   thou  not  make  haste  to   do  that  which  is 


292  MARCUS   AURELIUS 

according  to  thy  nature  ?  But  it  is  necessary  to  take  rest  also. 
It  is  necessary.  However,  Nature  has  fixed  boivnds  to  this  too: 
she  has  fixed  bounds  to  eating  and  drinking,  and  yet  thou  goest 
beyond  these  bounds,  beyond  what  is  sufficient;  yet  in  thy  acts 
it  is  not  so,  but  thou  stoppest  short  of  what  thou  canst  do.  So 
thou  lovest  not  thyself,  for  if  thou  didst  thou  wouldst  love  thy 
nature  and  her  will.  But  those  who  love  their  several  arts  ex- 
haust themselves  in  working  at  them  unwashed  and  without  food ; 
but  thou  valuest  thy  own  nature  less  than  the  turner  values  the 
turning  art,  or  the  dancer  the  dancing  art,  or  the  lover  of  money 
values  his  money,  or  the  vainglorious  man  his  little  glory.  And 
such  men,  when  they  have  a  violent  affection  to  a  thing,  choose 
neither  to  eat  nor  to  sleep  rather  than  to  perfect  the  things 
which  they  care  for.  But  are  the  acts  which  concern  society 
more  vile  in  thy  eyes  and  less  worthy  of  thy  labor  ? 

How  easy  it  is  to  repel  and  to  wipe  away  every  impression 
which  is  troublesome  or  unsuitable,  and  immediately  to  be  in  all 
tranquillity. 

Judge  every  word  and  deed  which  are  according  to  nature  to 
be  fit  for  thee;  and  be  not  diverted  by  the  blame  which  follows 
from  any  people,  nor  by  their  words,  but  if  a  thing  is  good  to 
be  done  or  said,  do  not  consider  it  unworthy  of  thee.  For  those 
persons  have  their  peculiar  leading  principle  and  follow  their 
peculiar  movement;  which  things  do  not  thou  regard,  but  go 
straight  on,  following  thy  own  nature  and  the  common  nature; 
and  the  way  of  both  is  one. 

I  go  through  the  things  which  happen  according  to  nature 
until  I  shall  fall  and  rest,  breathing  out  my  breath  into  that 
element  out  of  which  I  daily  draw  it  in,  and  falling  upon  that 
earth  out  of  which  my  father  collected  the  seed,  and  my  mother 
the  blood,  and  my  nurse  the  milk;  out  of  which  during  so  many 
years  I  have  been  supplied  with  food  and  drink;  which  bears  me 
when  I  tread  on  it  and  abuse  it  for  so  many  purposes. 

Thou  sayest,  Men  cannot  admire  the  sharpness  of  thy  wits. 
Be  it  so;  but  there  are  many  other  things  of  which  thou  canst 
not  say,  I  am  not  formed  from  them  by  nature.  Show  those 
qualities,  then,  which  are  altogether  in  thy  power,  sincerity,  grav- 
ity, endurance  of  labor,  aversion  to  pleasure,  contentment  with 
thy  portion  and  with  few  things,  benevolence,  frankness,  no  love 
of  superfluity,  freedom  from  trifling,  magnanimity.  Dost  thou 
not  see  how  many  qualities  thou  art  immediately  able  to  exhibit, 


MARCUS   AURELIUS  293 

in  which  there  is  no  excuse  of  natural  incapacity  and  unfitness, 
and  yet  thou  still  remainest  voluntarily  below  the  mark  ?  or  art 
thou  compelled  through  being  defectively  furnished  by  nature  to 
murmur,  and  to  be  stingy,  and  to  flatter,  and  to  find  fault  with 
thy  poor  body,  and  to  try  to  please  men,  and  to  make  great  dis- 
play, and  to  be  so  restless  in  thy  mind?  No,  by  the  gods;  but 
thou  mightest  have  been  delivered  from  these  things  long  ago. 
Only  if  in  truth  thou  canst  be  charged  with  being  rather  slow 
and  dull  of  comprehension,  thou  must  exert  thyself  about  this 
also,  not  neglecting  it  nor  yet  taking  pleasure  in  thy  dullness. 

One  man,  when  he  has  done  a  service  to  another,  is  ready  to 
set  it  down  to  his  account  as  a  favor  conferred.  Another  is  not 
ready  to  do  this,  but  still  in  his  own  mind  he  thinks  of  the  man 
as  his  debtor,  and  he  knows  what  he  has  done.  A  third  in  a 
manner  does  not  even  know  what  he  has  done,  but  he  is  like  a 
vine  which  has  produced  grapes,  and  seeks  for  nothing  more 
after  it  has  once  produced  its  proper  fruit.  As  a  horse  when  he 
has  run,  a  dog  when  he  has  tackled  the  game,  a  bee  when  it 
has  made  the  honey,  so  a  man  when  he  has  done  a  good  act 
does  not  call  out  for  others  to  come  and  see,  but  he  goes  on  to 
another  act,  as  a  vine  goes  on  to  produce  again  the  grapes  in 
season.  Must  a  man  then  be  one  of  these,  who  in  a  manner  act 
thus  without  observing  it  ?  Yes.  But  this  very  thing  is  neces- 
sary, the  observation  of  what  a  man  is  doing;  for,  it  may  be 
said,  it  is  characteristic  of  the  social  animal  to  perceive  that  he 
is  working  in  a  social  manner,  and  indeed  to  wish  that  his  social 
partner  also  should  perceive  it.  It  is  true  that  thou  sayest,  but 
thou  dost  not  rightly  understand  what  is  now  said:  and  for  this 
reason  thou  wilt  become  one  of  those  of  whom  I  spoke  before, 
for  even  they  are  misled  by  a  certain  show  of  reason.  But  if 
thou  wilt  choose  to  understand  the  meaning  of  what  is  said,  do 
not  fear  that  for  this  reason  thou  wilt  omit  any  social  act. 

A  prayer  of  the  Athenians:  Rain,  rain,  O  dear  Zeus,  down  on 
the  ploughed  fields  of  the  Athenians  and  on  the  plains.  In  truth 
we  ought  not  to  pray  at  all,  or  we  ought  to  pray  in  this  simple 
and  noble  fashion. 

Just  as  we  must  understand  when  it  is  said  that  yEsculapius 
prescribed  to  this  man  horse-exercise,  or  bathing  in  cold  water, 
or  going  without  shoes,  so  we  must  understand  it  when  it  is 
said  that  the  nature  of  the  universe  prescribed  to  this  man 
disease,  or  mutilation,  or  loss,  or  anything  else  of  the  kind.     For 


294  MARCUS   AURELIUS 

in  the  first  case  prescribed  means  something  like  this:  he  pre- 
scribed this  for  this  man  as  a  thing  adapted  to  procure  health; 
and  in  the  second  case  it  means  that  which  happens  to  (or 
suits)  ever}7  man  is  fixed  in  a  manner  for  him  suitably  to  his 
destiny.  For  this  is  what  we  mean  when  we  say  that  things  are 
suitable  to  us,  as  the  workmen  say  of  squared  stones  in  walls  or 
the  pyramids,  that  they  are  suitable,  when  they  fit  them  to  one 
another  in  some  kind  of  connection.  For  there  is  altogether  one 
fitness  (harmony).  And  as  the  universe  is  made  up  out  of  all 
bodies  to  be  such  a  body  as  it  is,  so  out  of  all  existing  causes 
necessity  (destiny)  is  made  up  to  be  such  a  cause  as  it  is.  And 
even  those  who  are  completely  ignorant  understand  what  I  mean; 
for  they  say,  It  (necessity,  destiny)  brought  this  to  such  a  per- 
son. This  then  was  brought  and  this  was  prescribed  to  him. 
Let  us  then  receive  these  things,  as  well  as  those  which  ^Escu- 
lapius  prescribes.  Many  as  a  matter  of  course  even  among  his 
prescriptions  are  disagreeable,  but  we  accept  them  in  the  hope 
of  health.  Let  the  perfecting  and  accomplishment  of  the  things 
which  the  common  nature  judges  to  be  good,  be  judged  by  thee 
to  be  of  the  same  kind  as  thy  health.  And  so  accept  everything 
which  happens,  even  if  it  seem  disagreeable,  because  it  leads  to 
this,  to  the  health  of  the  universe  and  to  the  prosperity  and 
felicity  of  Zeus  (the  universe).  For  he  would  not  have  brought 
on  any  man  what  he  has  brought,  if  it  were  not  useful  for  the 
whole.  Neither  does  the  nature  of  anything,  whatever  it  may 
be,  cause  anything  which  is  not  suitable  to  that  which  is  directed 
by  it.  For  two  reasons  then  it  is  right  to  be  content  with  that 
which  happens  to  thee;  the  one,  because  it  was  done  for  thee 
and  prescribed  for  thee,  and  in  a  manner  had  reference  to  thee, 
originally  from  the  most  ancient  causes  spun  with  thy  destiny; 
and  the  other,  because  even  that  which  comes  severally  to  every 
man  is  to  the  power  which  administers  the  universe  a  cause  of 
felicity  and  perfection,  nay  even  of  its  very  continuance.  For 
the  integrity  of  the  whole  is  mutilated,  if  thou  cuttest  off  any- 
thing whatever  from  the  conjunction  and  the  continuity  either  of 
the  parts  or  of  the  causes.  And  thou  dost  cut  off,  as  far  as  it  is 
in  thy  power,  when  thou  art  dissatisfied,  and  in  a  manner  triest 
to  put  anything  out  of  the  way. 

Be  not  disgusted,  nor  discouraged,  nor  dissatisfied,  if  thou 
dost  not  succeed  in  doing  everything  according  to  right  princi- 
ples, but   when   thou   hast   failed,  turn    back   again,  and   be   con- 


MARCUS   AURELIUS  295 

tent  if  the  greater  part  of  what  thou  doest  is  consistent  with 
man's  nature,  and  love  this  to  which  thou  returnest;  and  do  not 
return  to  philosophy  as  if  she  were  a  master,  but  act  like  those 
who  have  sore  eyes  and  apply  a  bit  of  sponge  and  egg,  or  as 
another  applies  a  plaster,  or  drenching  with  water.  For  thus 
thou  wilt  not  fail  to  obey  reason,  and  thou  wilt  repose  in  it. 
And  remember  that  philosophy  requires  only  things  which  thy 
nature  requires;  but  thou  wouldst  have  something  else  which  is 
not  according  to  nature.  It  may  be  objected,  Why,  what  is  more 
agreeable  than  this  (which  I  am  doing)  ?  But  is  not  this  the 
very  reason  why  pleasure  deceives  us  ?  And  consider  if  magna- 
nimity, freedom,  simplicity,  equanimity,  piety,  are  not  more  agree- 
able. For  what  is  more  agreeable  than  wisdom  itself,  when  thou 
thinkest  of  the  security  and  the  happy  course  of  all  things  which 
depend  on  the  faculty  of  understanding  and  knowledge  ? 

Things  are  in  such  a  kind  of  envelopment  that  they  have 
seemed  to  philosophers,  not  a  few  nor  those  common  philoso- 
phers, altogether  unintelligible ;  nay  even  to  the  Stoics  themselves 
they  seem  difficult  to  understand.  And  all  our  assent  is  change- 
able; for  where  is  the  man  who  never  changes?  Carry  thy 
thoughts  then  to  the  objects  themselves,  and  consider  how  short- 
lived they  are  and  worthless,  and  that  they  may  be  in  the  posses- 
sion of  a  filthy  wretch  or  a  profligate  or  a  robber.  Then  turn  to 
the  morals  of  those  who  live  with  thee,  and  it  is  hardly  possible 
to  endure  even  the  most  agreeable  of  them,  to  say  nothing  of  a 
man  being  hardly  able  to  endure  himself.  In  such  darkness 
then  and  dirt,  and  in  so  constant  a  flux  both  of  substance  and 
of  time,  and  of  motion  and  of  things  moved,  what  there  is  worth 
being  highly  prized,  or  even  an  object  of  serious  pursuit,  I  can- 
not imagine.  But,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  a  man's  duty  to  comfort 
himself,  and  to  wait  for  his  natural  dissolution,  and  not  to  be 
vexed  at  the  delay,  but  to  rest  in  these  principles  only:  the  one, 
that  nothing  will  happen  to  me  which  is  not  conformable  to  the 
nature  of  the  universe;  and  the  other,  that  it  is  in  my  power 
never  to  act  contrary  to  my  god  and  daemon:  for  there  is  no 
man  who  will  compel  me  to  this. 

About  what  am  I  now  employing  my  own  soul  ?  On  every 
occasion  I  must  ask  myself  this  question,  and  inquire,  What 
have  I  now  in  this  part  of  me  which  they  call  the  ruling  prin- 
ciple ?    and   whose   soul   have    I    now, —  that   of   a    child,  or    of    a 


296  MARCUS  AURELIUS 

young  man,   or  of  a   feeble    woman,   or  of  a  tyrant,   or  of   a  do- 
mestic animal,  or  of  a  wild  beast  ? 

What  kind  of  things  those  are  which  appear  good  to  the 
many,  we  may  learn  even  from  this.  For  if  any  man  should 
conceive  certain  things  as  being  really  good,  such  as  prudence, 
temperance,  justice,  fortitude,  he  would  not,  after  having  first 
conceived  these,  endure  to  listen  to  anything  which  should  not 
be  in  harmony  with  what  is  really  good.  But  if  a  man  has  first 
conceived  as  good  the  things  which  appear  to  the  many  to  be 
good,  he  will  listen  and  readily  receive  as  very  applicable  that 
which  was  said  by  the  comic  writer.  Thus  even  the  many  per- 
ceive the  difference.  For  were  it  not  so,  this  saying  would  not 
offend  and  would  not  be  rejected  (in  the  first  case),  while  we 
receive  it  when  it  is  said  of  wealth,  and  of  the  means  which 
further  luxury  and  fame,  as  said  fitly  and  wittily.  Go  on,  then, 
and  ask  if  we  should  value  and  think  those  things  to  be  good, 
to  which,  after  their  first  conception  in  the  mind,  the  words  of 
the  comic  writer  might  be  aptly  applied, —  that  he  who  has  them, 
through  pure  abundance  has  not  a  place  to  ease  himself  in. 

I  am  composed  of  the  formal  and  the  material;  and  neither 
of  them  will  perish  into  nonexistence,  as  neither  of  them  came 
into  existence  out  of  nonexistence.  Every  part  of  me  then  will 
be  reduced  by  change  into  some  part  of  the  universe,  and  that 
again  will  change  into  another  part  of  the  universe,  and  so  on 
forever.  And  by  consequence  of  such  a  change  I  too  exist,  and 
those  who  begot  me,  and  so  on  forever  in  the  other  direction. 
For  nothing  hinders  us  from  saying  so,  even  if  the  universe  is 
administered  according  to  definite  periods  (of  revolution). 

Reason  and  the  reasoning  art  (philosophy)  are  powers  which 
are  sufficient  for  themselves  and  for  their  own  works.  They 
move  then  from  a  first  principle  which  is  their  own,  and  they 
make  their  way  to  the  end  which  is  proposed  to  them;  and  this 
is  the  reason  why  such  acts  are  named  Catorthdseis  or  right  acts, 
which  word  signifies  that  they  proceed  by  the  right  road. 

None  of  these  things  ought  to  be  called  a  man's,  which  do 
not  belong  to  a  man,  as  man.  They  are  not  required  of  a  man, 
nor  does  man's  nature  promise  them,  nor  are  they  the  means  of 
man's  nature  attaining  its  end.  Neither  then  does  the  end  of 
man  lie  in  these  things,  nor  yet  that  which  aids  to  the  accom- 
plishment  of   this   end,  and   that   which   aids   toward   this   end  is 


MARCUS   AURELIUS  297 

that  which  is  good.  Besides,  if  any  of  these  things  did  belong  to 
man,  it  would  not  be  right  for  a  man  to  despise  them  and  to  set 
himself  against  them;  nor  would  a  man  be  worthy  of  praise  who 
showed  that  he  did  not  want  these  things,  nor  would  he  who 
stinted  himself  in  any  of  them  be  good,  if  indeed  these  things 
were  good.  But  now  the  more  of  these  things  a  man  deprives 
himself  of,  or  of  other  things  like  them,  or  even  when  he  is  de- 
prived of  any  of  them,  the  more  patiently  he  endures  the  loss, 
just  in  the  same  degree  he  is  a  better  man. 

Such  as  are  thy  habitual  thoughts,  such  also  will  be  -the  char- 
acter of  thy  mind;  for  the  soul  is  dyed  by  the  thoughts.  Dye  it 
then  with  a  continuous  series  of  such  thoughts  as  these:  for  in- 
stance, that  where  a  man  can  live,  there  he  can  also  live  well. 
But  he  must  live  in  a  palace;  well  then,  he  can  also  live  well  in 
a  palace.  And  again,  consider  that  for  whatever  purpose  each 
thing  has  been  constituted,  for  this  it  has  been  constituted,  and 
towards  this  it  is  carried;  and  its  end  is  in  that  towards  which 
it  is  carried;  and  where  the  end  is,  there  also  is  the  advantage 
and  the  good  of  each  thing.  Now  the  good  for  the  reasonable 
animal  is  society;  for  that  we  are  made  for  society  has  been 
shown  above.  Is  it  not  plain  that  the  inferior  exists  for  the  sake 
of  the  superior  ?  But  the  things  which  have  life  are  superior  to 
those  which  have  not  life,  and  of  those  which  have  life  the  su- 
perior are  those  which  have  reason. 

To  seek  what  is  impossible  is  madness:  and  it  is  impossible 
that  the  bad  should  not  do  something  of  this  kind. 

Nothing  happens  to  any  man  which  he  is  not  formed  by  na- 
ture to  bear.  The  same  things  happen  to  another,  and  either 
because  he  does  not  see  that  they  have  happened,  or  because  he 
would  show  a  great  spirit,  he  is  firm  and  remains  unharmed.  It 
is  a  shame  then  that  ignorance  and  conceit  should  be  stronger 
than  wisdom. 

Things  themselves  touch  not  the  soul,  not  in  the  least  de- 
gree; nor  have  they  admission  to  the  soul,  nor  can  they  turn  or 
move  the  soul;  but  the  soul  turns  and  moves  itself  alone,  and 
whatever  judgments  it  may  think  proper  to  make,  such  it  makes 
for  itself  the  things  which  present  themselves  to  it. 

In  one  respect  man  is  the  nearest  thing  to  me,  so  far  as  I 
must  do  good  to  men  and  endure  them.  But  so  far  as  some 
men  make  themselves  obstacles  to  my  proper  acts,  man  becomes 
to  me  one  of   the  things  which  are  indifferent,  no  less  than  the 


298  MARCUS   AURELIUS 

sun  or  wind  or  a  wild  beast.  Now  it  is  true  that  these  may  im- 
pede my  action,  but  they  are  no  impediments  to  my  affects  and 
disposition,  which  have  the  power  of  acting  conditionally  and 
changing;  for  the  mind  converts  and  changes  every  hindrance  to 
its  activity  into  an  aid;  and  so  that  which  is  a  hindrance  is  made 
a  furtherance  to  an  act;  and  that  which  is  an  obstacle  on  the 
road  helps  us  on  this  road. 

Reverence  that  which  is  best  in  the  universe;  and  this  is  that 
which  makes  use  of  all  things  and  directs  all  things.  And  in 
like  manner  also  reverence  that  which  is  best  in  thyself;  and 
this  is  of  the  same  kind  as  that.  For  in  thyself,  also,  that  which 
makes  use  of  everything  else  is  this,  and  thy  life  is  directed  by 
this. 

That  which  does  no  harm  to  the  state  does  no  harm  to  the 
citizen.  In  the  case  of  every  appearance  of  harm,  apply  this  rule: 
if  the  state  is  not  harmed  by  this,  neither  am  I  harmed.  But  if 
the  state  is  harmed,  thou  must  not  be  angry  with  him  who  does 
harm  to  the  state.     Show  him  where  his  error  is. 

Often  think  of  the  rapidity  with  which  things  pass  by  and 
disappear,  both  the  things  which  are  and  the  things  which  are 
produced.  For  substance  is  like  a  river  in  a  continual  flow,  and 
the  activities  of  things  are  in  constant  change,  and  the  causes 
work  in  infinite  varieties;  and  there  is  hardly  anything  which 
stands  still.  And  consider  this  which  is  near  to  thee,  this  bound- 
less abyss  of  the  past  and  of  the  future  in  which  all  things  dis- 
appear. How,  then,  is  he  not  a  fool  who  is  puffed  up  with  such 
things  or  plagued  about  them,  and  makes  himself  miserable  ?  for 
they  vex  him  only  for  a  time,  and  a  short  time. 

Think  of  the  universal  substance,  of  which  thou  hast  a  very 
small  portion;  and  of  universal  time,  of  which  a  short  and  indi- 
visible interval  has  been  assigned  to  thee;  and  of  that  which  is 
fixed  by  destiny,  and  how  small  a  part  of  it  thou  art. 

Does  another  do  me  wrong  ?  Let  him  look  to  it.  He  has  his 
own  disposition,  his  own  activity.  I  now  have  what  the  univer- 
sal nature  now  wills  me  to  have;  and  I  do  what  my  nature  now 
wills  me  to  do. 

Let  the  part  of  thy  soul  which  leads  and  governs  be  undis- 
turbed by  the  movements  in  the  flesh,  whether  of  pleasure  or  of 
pain;  and  let  it  not  unite  with  them,  but  let  it  circumscribe  it- 
self and  limit  those  affections  to  their  parts.  But  when  these 
affections  rise   up  to  the   mind  by  virtue  of  that  other  sympathy 


MARCUS   AURELIUS  299 

that  naturally  exists  in  a  body  which  is  all  one,  then  thou  must 
not  strive  to  resist  the  sensation,  for  it  is  natural;  but  let  not  the 
ruling  part  of  itself  add  to  the  sensation  the  opinion  that  it  is 
either  good  or  bad. 

Live  with  the  gods.  And  he  does  live  with  the  gods  who  con- 
stantly shows  to  them  that  his  own  soul  is  satisfied  with  that 
which  is  assigned  to  him,  and  that  it  does  all  that  the  daemon 
wishes,  which  Zeus  hath  given  to  every  man  for  his  guardian  and 
guide,  a  portion  of  himself.  And  this  is  every  man's  understand- 
ing and  reason. 

Art  thou  angry  with  him  whose  armpits  stink  ?  art  thou  angry 
with  him  whose  mouth  smells  foul  ?  What  good  will  this  anger 
do  thee?  He  has  such  a  mouth,  he  has  such  armpits;  it  is  neces- 
sary that  such  an  emanation  must  come  from  such  things.  But 
the  man  has  reason,  it  will  be  said,  and  he  is  able,  if  he  takes 
pains,  to  discover  wherein  he  offends;  I  wish  thee  well  of  thy 
discovery.  Well  then,  and  thou  hast  reason:  by  thy  rational  fac- 
ulty stir  up  his  rational  faculty;  show  him  his  error,  admonish 
him.  For  if  he  listen,  thou  wilt  cure  him,  and  there  is  no  need 
of  anger. 

As  thou  intendest  to  live  when  thou  art  gone  out,  ...  so 
it  is  in  thy  power  to  live  here.  But  if  men  do  not  permit  thee, 
then  get  away  out  of  life,  yet  so  as  if  thou  wert  suffering  no 
harm.  The  house  is  smoky,  and  I  quit  it.  Why  dost  thou  think 
that  this  is  any  trouble  ?  But  so  long  as  nothing  of  the  kind 
drives  me  out,  I  remain,  am  free,  and  no  man  shall  hinder  me 
from  doing  what  I  choose ;  and  I  choose  to  do  what  is  according 
to  the  nature  of  the  rational  and  social  animal. 

The  intelligence  of  the  universe  is  social.  Accordingly  it  has 
made  the  inferior  things  for  the  sake  of  the  superior,  and  it  has 
fitted  the  superior  to  one  another.  Thou  seest  how  it  has  sub- 
ordinated, co-ordinated,  and  assigned  to  everything  its  proper 
portion,  and  has  brought  together  into  concord  with  one  another 
the  things  which  are  the  best. 

How  hast  thou  behaved  hitherto  to  the  gods,  thy  parents, 
brethren,  children,  teachers,  to  those  who  looked  after  thy  infancy, 
to  thy  friends,  kinsfolk,  to  thy  slaves  ?  Consider  if  thou  hast 
hitherto  behaved  to  all  in  such  a  way  that  this  may  be  said  of 
thee: — 

w  He  never  has  wronged  a  man  in  deed  or  word.* 


3<50  MARCUS  AURELIUS 

And  call  to  recollection  both  how  many  things  thou  hast  passed 
through,  and  how  many  things  thou  hast  been  able  to  endure, 
and  that  the  history  of  thy  life  is  now  complete  and  thy  service 
is  ended;  and  how  many  beautiful  things  thou  hast  seen;  and 
how  many  pleasures  and  pains  thou  hast  despised;  and  how  many 
things  called  honorable  thou  hast  spurned;  and  to  how  many  ill- 
minded  folks  thou  hast  shown  a  kind  disposition. 

Why  do  unskilled  and  ignorant  souls  disturb  him  who  has 
skill  and  knowledge  ?  What  soul,  then,  has  skill  and  knowledge  ? 
That  which  knows  beginning  and  end,  and  knows  the  reason 
which  pervades  all  substance,  and  though  all  time  by  fixed 
periods  (revolutions)  administers  the  universe. 

Soon,  very  soon,  thou  wilt  be  ashes,  or  a  skeleton,  and  either 
a  name  or  not  even  a  name ;  but  name  is  sound  and  echo.  And 
the  things  which  are  much  valued  in  life  are  empty  and  rotten 
and  trifling,  and  (like)  little  dogs  biting  one  another,  and  little 
children  quarreling,  laughing,  and  then  straightway  weeping. 
But  fidelity  and  modesty  and  justice  and  truth  are  fled 

Up  to  Olympus  from  the  wide-spread  earth. 

—  Hesiod,  "Works  and  Days,^  V.  197. 

What,  then,  is  there  which  still  detains  thee  here,  if  the  ob- 
jects of  sense  are  easily  changed  and  never  stand  still,  and  the 
organs  of  perception  are  dull  and  easily  receive  false  impressions, 
and  the  poor  soul  itself  is  an  exhalation  from  blood  ?  But  to 
have  good  repute  amid  such  a  world  as  this  is  an  empty  thing. 
Why  then  dost  thou  not  wait  in  tranquillity  for  thy  end,  whether 
it  is  extinction  or  removal  to  another  state  ?  And  until  that  time 
comes,  what  is  sufficient  ?  Why,  what  else  than  to  venerate  the 
gods  and  bless  them,  and  to  do  good  to  men,  and  to  practice 
tolerance  and  self-restraint;  but  as  to  everything  which  is  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  poor  flesh  and  breath,  to  remember  that  this 
is  neither  thine  nor  in  thy  power. 

Thou  canst  pass  thy  life  in  an  equable  flow  of  happiness,  if 
thou  canst  go  by  the  right  way  and  think  and  act  in  the  right 
way.  These  two  things  are  common  both  to  the  soul  of  God 
and  to  the  soul  of  man,  and  to  the  soul  of  every  rational  being: 
not  to  be  hindered  by  another;  and  to  hold  good  to  consist  in 
the  disposition  to  justice  and  the  practice  of  it,  and  in  this  to  let 
thy  desire  find  its  termination. 


MARCUS   AURELIUS  301 

If  this  is  neither  my  own  badness,  nor  an  effect  of  my  own 
badness,  and  the  common  weal  is  not  injured,  why  am  I  troubled 
about  it,  and  what  is  the  harm  to  the  common  weal  ? 

Do  not  be  cairied  along  inconsiderately  by  the  appearance  of 
things,  but  give  help  (to  all)  according  to  thy  ability  and  their 
fitness;  and  if  they  should  have  sustained  loss  in  matters  which 
are  indifferent,  do  not  imagine  this  to  be  a  damage,  for  it  is  a 
bad  habit.  But  as  the  old  man,  when  he  went  away,  asked  back 
his  foster-child's  top,  remembering  that  it  was  a  top,  so  do  thou 
in  this  case  also. 

When  thou  art  calling  out  on  the  Rostra,  hast  thou  forgotten, 
man,  what  these  things  are?  <(Yes;  but  they  are  objects  of  great 
concern  to  these  people ! }>  Wilt  thou  too  then  be  made  a  fool  for 
these  things  ?  I  was  once  a  fortunate  man,  but  I  lost  it,  I  know 
not  how.  But  fortunate  means  that  a  man  has  assigned  to  him- 
self a  good  fortune;  and  a  good  fortune  is  good  disposition  of  the 
soul,  good  emotions,  good  actions.* 

Book  V.  of  the  <(  Meditations »  complete. 
*The  text  of  this  section  is  corrupt. 


302 


ALFRED   AUSTIN 

(1835-) 

jLfred  Austin,  who  succeeded  Tennyson  as  Poet  Laureate  of 
England,  was  born  at  Headingley,  near  Leeds,  May  30th, 
1835.  Graduating  at  the  University  of  London  in  1853,  he 
was  called  to  the  bar  four  years  later,  but  has  been  identified 
with  literature  and  journalism  rather  than  with  law.  He  was  field 
correspondent  of  the  London  Standard  during  the  Franco-Prussian 
War,  and  when  the  National  Review  was  founded  in  1883  became 
its  editor.  He  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  verse,  and  as  Poet 
Laureate  is  adding  with  meritorious  industry  to  his  metrical  pro- 
ductions. It  is  as  a  writer  of  prose  essays  and  newspaper  articles, 
however,  that  he  has  done  his  most  effective  work  in  his  generation. 


THE  APOSTLE    OF   CULTURE 

It  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say  that,  in  his  very  earliest  verse, 
Matthew  Arnold  frowned  rather  than  smiled  —  frowned  as  a 
teacher  might  frown  who  thinks  he  has  discovered  everything 
is  going  amiss  in  the  school  it  is  his  mission  to  instruct.  His 
first  poem  is  a  lament  over  "a  thousand  discords,"  "man's  fitful 
uproar, w  "our  vain  turmoil, w  and  "noisy  schemes. w  We  turn  the 
page  to  read  that  there  are  "bad  days,8  that  "we  ask  and  ask, 
while  Shakespeare  smiles  and  is  free, B  and  that  it  has  become  "  a 
monotonous,  dead,  unprofitable  world. w  That  these  utterances 
were  perfectly  sincere,  and  no  mere  metrical  affectation,  who  can 
doubt  that  is  acquainted  with  the  general  body  of  Matthew  Ar- 
nold's poetry  ?  Here,  for  instance,  are  some  notable  but  strictly 
representative  passages,  mostly  written  while  he  was  still  a  young 
man:  — 

"  But  we,  brought  forth  and  reared  in  hours 
Of  change,  alarm,  surprise  — 
What  shelter  to  grow  ripe  is  ours  ? 
What  leisure  to  grow  wise  ? 


ALFRED   AUSTIN  303 

(<  Like  children  bathing  on  the  shore, 
Buried  a  wave  beneath, 
The  second  wave  succeeds  before 
We  have  had  time  to  breathe. 

(<  Too  fast  we  live,  too  much  are  tried, 
Too  harassed,  to  attain 
Wordsworth's  sweet  calm,  or  Goethe's  wide 
And  luminous  view  to  gain." 

—  In  memory  of  the  author  of  (<  Obermann? 

<(AhJ  two  desires  toss  about 
The  poet's  feverish  blood. 
One  drives  him  to  the  world  without, 
And  one  to  solitude. 

((  He  who  hath  watched,  not  shared,  the  strife, 
Knows  how  the  day  hath  gone. 
He  only  lives  with  the  world's  life 
Who  hath  renounced  his  own !  w 

—  The  same. 

<(  Wandering  between  two  worlds,  one  dead, 
The  other  powerless  to  be  born, 
With  nowhere  yet  to  rest  my  head, 

Like  these,  on  earth  I  wait  forlorn: 
Their  faith,  my  tears,  the  world  deride, 
I  come  to  shed  them  at  your  side. 

<c  There  yet  perhaps  may  dawn  an  age, 

More  fortunate,  alas!    than  we, 
Which  without  hardness  will  be  sage, 

And  gay  without  frivolity. 
Sons  of  the  world,  O  haste  those  years; 
But,  till  they  rise,  allow  our  tears. 9 

—  «  Stranger  from  the  Grand  Chartreuse.* 

He  laments,  in  the  same  poem,  that 

(<  Your  creeds  are  dead,  your  rites  are  dead, 
Your  social  order  too," 

(<  But  now  the  old  is  out  of  date, 
The  new  is  not  yet  born, 
And  who  can  be  alone  elate, 

While  the  world  lies  forlorn?* 


adding, 


304  ALFRED   AUSTIN 

Nor  is  it  only  in  poems  whose  subject,  it  might  perhaps  be 
urged,  not  unnaturally  leads  to  the  expression  of  such  sentiments, 
that  we  meet  with  this  lament  over  the  unfavorable  conditions 
and  character  of  the  age  After  several  stanzas  of  tranquil  idyl- 
lic beauty  in  the  lovely  poem,  (<  The  Scholar  Gipsy, w  he  breaks 
forth  once  more  into  the  old  note  of  condemnation  and  regret:  — 

<(  O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gayly  as  the  sparkling  Thames, 
Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims, 

Its  heads  o'ertaxed,  its  palsied  hearts,  was  rife, 
Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear !  ° 

This  is  only  half  a  stanza,  and  there  are  ten  whole  ones  —  in 
fact  almost  half  of  the  poem  —  in  the  same  sad  key.  The  me- 
morial verses  on  Wordsworth  reiterate  a  kindred  conclusion;  and, 
even  in  such  a  poem  as  <(  A  Southern  Night, w  we  are  again  ad- 
monished that 

(<  We  see  all  sights  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  glance,  and  nod,  and  bustle  by, 
And  never  once  possess  one  soul 
Before  we  die.w 

Surely  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  show  that,  as  a  criticism  of 
life,  the  foregoing  verses  are  scarcely  just,  since  there  were  quite 
as  many  "hours  of  change,  surprise,  alarm, w  in  the  time  of 
Shakespeare  as  in  our  own,  and  no  more  <(  shelter  to  grow  ripe, w 
or  "leisure  to  grow  wise,"  then  than  now.  Tranquillity  is  attain- 
able in  any  age  by  the  truly  wise;  and  can  there  ever  have 
been  a  time  when  (<  the  poet's  feverish  blood  n  was  not  (<  tossed 
about  by  two  desires w  ? 

It  was  not,  however,  in  order  to  comment  on  their  drift  that 
the  foregoing  passages  have  been  cited,  but,  rather,  to  show, 
firstly,  that  the  ethical  element  in  them  predominates  conspicu- 
ously over  the  emotional  element;  and,  secondly,  that,  when  they 
were  written,  the  author  was  too  young,  and  as  yet  too  imper- 
fect a  master  of  the  instrument  he  was  using,  to  strike  so  high 
a  note  quite  successfully.  There  is  something  almost  unnatural 
in  a  young  writer's  ideal  being  tranquillity;  nor  is  serenity  the 
gift  a  kind  fairy  would  hang  on  the  cradle  of  one  of  its  favor- 
ites.    Rather  is  it  the  crown  of  mature  days  whose  combats  are 


ALFRED   AUSTIN  305 

over,  and  when  the  more  personal  passions  have  subsided.  A 
cloudless  April  bodes  no  good  to  the  husbandman;  and  a  tran- 
quil youth,  were  such  possible,  would  be  the  worst  conceivable 
apprenticeship  for  a  poet.  The  infantum  voces  flentes  in  limine 
primo,  the  young  bewildered  voices  wailing  on  the  threshold  of 
existence,  represent  what  we  conceive,  and  what  we  know,  of  the 
early  utterances  of  poets  who  afterward  attained  ripeness  and  se- 
renity. It  is  Goethe  himself,  whose  serenity  Matthew  Arnold  so 
much  admired,  but  who  had  hardly  attained,  or  was  even  in  pur- 
suit of  it,  when  he  wrote  (<  The  Sorrows  of  Werther 8  or  <(  Gotz 
von  Berlichingen, a  that  observes :  c<  No  youth  can  be  a  teacher. B 
The  business  of  the  young  poet  is  not  to  teach,  but  to  learn:  to 
learn  in  suffering,  in  suffering  rightly  and  largely  understood, 
what  he  may  afterward  teach  in  song. 

This,  I  think,  is  the  first  thing  that  strikes  one  in  reading, 
even  with  sincere  sympathy  and  admiration,  Matthew  Arnold's 
verse.  What  strikes  one  next  is  that  this  premature  craving  for 
tranquillity,  this  too  precocious  reasoning  and  moralizing  ten- 
dency, hampered  him,  as  yet  necessarily  a  novice,  in  the  use  of  his 
instrument.  <(  Buried  a  wave  beneath  w  is  an  awkward  inversion, 
and  (<  Goethe's  wide  and  luminous  view  to  gain  w  is  yet  more  open 
to  criticism.  In  (<Ah!  two  desires  toss  about, B  a  syllable  seems 
to  be  lacking.  In  the  couplet,  <(  Sons  of  the  world,  O  haste  those 
years ;  But,  till  they  rise,  allow  our  tears  w ;  neither  the  word 
<(  haste  *  nor  the  word  (<  rise  *  seems  to  be  quite  the  word  that 
is  wanted. 

It  would  be  invidious,  and  it  is  nowise  necessary,  to  insist  on 
this  point;  and,  if  allusion  has  been  made  to  it,  it  was  only  in 
order  to  show  that  imperfect  mastery  over  his  instrument  arose 
from  the  too  early  ripening  of  his  powers,  from  the  premature 
introduction  into  his  verse  of  reflection  and  philosophy,  and  from 
his  having,  so  to  speak,  essayed  to  soar  a  very  considerable  height 
before  he  had  quite  learned  to  fly.  Whether  this  defect  would 
have  been  in  time  repaired,  had  he  so  shaped  his  life  that  he 
could  have  responded  at  once  to  any  visitings  from  the  Muse 
that  might  happily  befall  him,  who  can  say  ?  But,  as  we  have 
seen,  and  as  everybody  will  perceive  who  reads  the  entire  series 
of  (<  Letters, w  his  life  was  shaped  in  an  entirely  different  manner, 
and  for  a  time  he  seemed  to  imagine  that  he  could  (<  take  up  * 
poetry,  or  "leave  it  alone, w  just  as  it  suited  him.  One  of  the 
impressions  left  on  the  mind  by  the  <(  Letters  w  is,  not  only  that  he 
1 — 20 


306  ALFRED   AUSTIN 

was  continually  dining  out  and  continually  paying  visits,  but  that 
he  was  perpetually  on  the  move.  It  will  perhaps  be  said  that  as 
an  inspector  of  schools  he  could  hardly  be  stationary,  and  that  is 
true.  But  had  he  jealously  and,  so  to  speak,  savagely  reserved 
for  stationariness,  or  at  least  for  solitude,  all  the  time  that  re- 
mained over  from  the  performance  of  his  official  duties,  he  would 
at  least  have  given  a  better  chance  to  that  part  of  his  nature 
which  appertained  distinctively  to  the  poet.  As  it  was,  this  part 
of  him  was  gradually  subordinated  and  finally  sacrificed  to  prose 
controversy  and  to  social  amenities.  And  so  it  came  to  pass 
that  at  length  he  was  urged  to  write  more  poetry  by  Mr.  Mun- 
della. 

There  is  a  highly  suggestive  sentence  in  one  of  the  "Letters," 
which  runs  thus :  <(  Perfection  in  the  region  of  the  highest  poetry 
demands  a  tearing  of  oneself  to  pieces,  which  men  do  not  read- 
ily consent  to,  unless  driven  by  their  daemon  to  do  so."  There, 
surely,  we  have  the  explanation  of  which  we  are  in  search,  in 
eight  words.  Though  he  has  left  works  in  verse  that  will  not 
die,  (< Thyrsis, "  <( The  Scholar  Gipsy, "  <(  Obermann  Once  More,"  etc., 
still  at  no  time  of  his  life  did  Matthew  Arnold  <(tear  himself  to 
pieces."  He  preferred  to  cultivate  tranquillity.  He  wrote  some 
most  beautiful  poetry,  but  was  not  driven  by  his  daemon  to  do  so, 
and  at  length  ceased  to  write  poetry  altogether. 

Little  or  nothing  has  been  said  here  concerning  Matthew 
Arnold,  the  writer  of  refined  and  exquisite  prose,  the  acute  liter- 
ary critic,  the  forcible  yet  urbane  controversialist,  the  zealous 
spiritual  teacher,  the  untiring  advocate  of  sweetness  and  light,  the 
moralist  whose  utterances  were  all  inspired  by  high  seriousness. 
But,  to  point  out  what  a  man  has  done  in  one  domain  of  mental 
energy,  and  to  forget  altogether  what  he  did  in  other  domains, 
is  to  do  him  great  injustice.  Yet  is  not  this  what  nearly  all  of 
us  do  to  those  writers  who  have  worked  for  us  with  a  generous 
versatility  ?  We  lay  stress  on  that  portion  of  his  work  in  which 
we  ourselves,  in  our  narrowness,  and  with  our  limitations,  alone 
are  interested,  and  pass  over  the  rest.  We  insist  on  his  poetry 
and  ignore  his  prose,  or  we  extol  the  prose  and  forget  the  poetry; 
or,  perhaps,  we  remember  his  idyls  because  we  happen  to  like 
these  best  since  they  are  just  suited  to  our  capacity  and  compre- 
hension, and  treat  as  nonexistent,  or  as  of  no  importance,  longer 
and  nobler  poems,  because  these  are  caviare  to  us.  Let  us  not 
do  that  injustice  to  Matthew  Arnold.     If  his  poems  had  been  his 


ALFRED    AUSTIN  307 

sole  contribution  to  the  good  of  his  fellow-creatures,  he  would 
still  have  deserved  to  be  kept  in  eternal  remembrance  by  them. 
Had  he  written  no  verse,  but  only  the  literary,  the  religious,  and 
the  spiritual  criticism  he  has  left  behind  him,  he  would  still  have 
merited  immunity  from  oblivion.  But  he  wrote  both  verse  and 
prose,  beautiful  verse,  delightful  prose,  and  did  so  much  beside, 
as  a  servant  of  the  State,  as  a  friend  of  education,  as  a  champion 
of  whatever  he  thought  for  the  benefit  of  the  human  race.  It 
would  scarcely  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  of  him :  — 

((     .  otnne  immensum  peragravit  mente  animoqueS* 

The  area  of  his  intellectual  activity  was  immense;  so  large,  in- 
deed, that  it  is  only  by  an  effort  of  memory  we  can  picture  to 
ourselves  its  extent. 

But  higher  praise  still  has  surely  to  be  bestowed  on  Matthew 
Arnold.  He  was  a  man  of  rare  gifts.  But  he  was  likewise  a 
model  son,  a  model  husband,  a  model  citizen.  Genius,  though 
not  an  every-day  phenomenon,  is,  I  suppose,  as  frequent  in  these 
days  as  in  others;  and,  perhaps,  there  never  was  before  so  much 
cleverness  as  is  now  to  be  observed  in  almost  every  walk  of  life. 
But  character  —  character  that  shows  itself  in  filial  piety,  in  con- 
jugal tenderness,  in  good  and  conscientious  citizenship  —  is  per- 
haps not  too  conspicuous,  especially  in  persons  exceptionally 
endowed.  One  looks  in  vain  for  a  serious  blemish  in  Matthew 
Arnold's  character.     It  has  been  said,  surely  with  truth:  — 

"Not  all  the  noblest  songs  are  worth 
One  noble  deed.w 

But,  in  his  case,  there  is  no  antithesis  between  teaching  and 
example.  He  wrote  beautiful  songs ;  and  his  life,  as  these  <c  Let- 
ters w  show,  was  one  long  noble  deed. 

From  a  review  of  Matthew  Arnold's  (<  Letters  » 
in  the  National  Review. 


3o8 


FRANCIS   BACON 

(1561-1626) 

[n  Bacon's  <(  Essays  Civil  and  Moral "  an  intellect  of  the  high- 
est order  expresses  itself  with  an  art  so  subtle  that  it  does 
not  seem  to  be  art  at  all.  Literary  form  is  lost  sight  of 
and  the  thought  engrosses  attention  to  the  exclusion  even  of  ad- 
miration for  the  greatness  of  the  mind  which  conceived  it.  Admira- 
tion is  excited  only  in  the  presence  of  what  seems  higher  than  our 
own  level.  It  is  the  peculiarity  and  the  touchstone  of  all  great  art, 
that  admiration  for  it  comes  only  as  an  afterthought.  Its  first  office 
is  that  of  sympathy.  It  expresses  what  is  strongest  and  truest  in  us 
as  if  it  were  wholly  our  right  to  have  it  expressed.  We  feel  no 
sense  of  obligation  to  it,  but  rather  of  comradeship  with  it,  as  if,  by 
some  process  too  simple  and  natural  to  be  even  surprising,  we  had 
regained  consciousness  of  a  higher  life  in  us  than  we  had  suspected, 
—  of  a  life  which  belongs  to  our  common  lives  as  much  as  it  does  to 
the  highest  genius  of  earth  or  to  the  healthiest  and  most  natural 
souls  in  whatever  state  of  natural  healthiness  of  soul  is  to  constitute 
hereafter  our  heaven.  When  from  this  high  future  that  is  to  be 
ours,  some  great  soul  comes  to  us  as  Bacon  does,  it  is  always  in  the 
simplicity  of  good  neighborliness.  He  goes  in  and  out  among  us, 
speaking  our  every-day  language  and  ministering  to  our  every-day 
needs,  and  we  do  not  feel  his  superiority  until  he  has  gone.  Then 
we  look  among  ourselves  and  back  through  the  ages  of  civilization 
to  find  his  equal,  learning  thus  for  the  first  time  to  admire  him  as 
we  had  not  thought  to  do  before. 

To  read  twenty  lines  into  one  of  the  most  commonplace  of  his 
essays  is  to  come  into  the  presence  of  one  of  the  most  potent  forces 
of  the  world  —  an  intellect  of  childlike  directness  of  expression  and 
an  almost  superhuman  strength  of  conception.  No  one  who  has 
written  since  his  day  has  done  anything  that  will  compare  in  force, 
in  comprehensiveness,  in  terse  compactness  of  expression,  with  any 
one  of  a  score  of  his  short  essays.  In  these  respects  they  call  for 
reverence,  and  where  they  express  the  lower  part  of  his  nature,  the 
cunning  of  the  courtier,  the  lack  of  scruple  of  the  weak  and  time- 
serving politician,  loving  virtue  in  theory,  but  not  brave  enough  in 
practice  to  make  a  stand  for  it,  then  the  strength  of  intellect,  which 


FRANCIS  BACON. 

Portrait  with   Tailpiece  of  St.  Michaels  Church' 


FRANCIS   BACON  309 

is  so  great  a  merit  in  essays  expressing  his  higher  mind,  makes  the 
baseness  of  his  thought  when  it  is  base,  formidable  to  the  last  de- 
gree. When  Bacon  is  giving  bad  advice,  no  man  can  give  worse,  or 
give  it  in  a  way  more  calculated  to  degrade. 

He  stands  alone  among  writers  of  prose  essays,  but  Alexander 
Pope  who  resembled  him  physically  and  mentally  in  so  many  ways, 
has  written  essays  in  verse  which  are  hardly  inferior  in  compactness 
of  expression  and  in  their  far-reaching  insight  into  human  nature. 
Pope  has  the  art  of  turning  a  phrase  so  that  it  sticks  in  the  mind 
forever.  Shakespeare  has  it  also.  He  is  the  only  writer  of  English 
who  is  superior  to  Pope  in  this  respect.  Bacon  does  not  rank  with 
either  of  them  in  it.  The  strength  of  his  essays  lies  in  the  immedi- 
ate effect  they  are  capable  of  producing,  and  in  the  bent  they  uncon- 
sciously create.  The  reader  who  is  influenced  by  Pope,  ten  years 
after  reading  one  of  his  poems  will  know  it  to  be  his  by  recalling 
some  such  lines  as  the  couplet:  — 

({ What  can  ennoble  sots  or  slaves  or  cowards  ? 
Alas,  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards. w 

But  if  he  read  Bacon  and  take  the  trouble  to  think  after  him,  he 
will  forget  the  author,  the  style,  the  phrase,  in  the  thought  which 
raises  and  strengthens  his  own  mind  through  Bacon's  power  of  in- 
sight into  human  nature.  To  be  able  to  operate  thus  on  the  mind 
of  another  is  to  have  genius  of  the  highest  quality. 

Bacon  is  the  highest  type  of  the  essayist  because  his  is,  in  its 
method,  the  highest  type  of  intellect.  To  study  his  methods  of  ex- 
pression is  to  have  opportunity  to  see  how  childlike  great  genius  is. 
It  is  the  mind  of  the  inferior  order  which  complicates  a  question  so 
that  only  experts  can  understand  it.  The  great  mind  makes  it  so 
plain  that  a  child  can  understand,  if  he  will  only  take  the  trouble  to 
try.  To  understand  Bacon  —  to  understand  any  one  else  whose  mind 
really  belongs  to  the  highest  class  —  it  is  only  necessary  to  be  will- 
ing to  think  as  a  child  does  in  learning  its  letters. 

A  great  linguist,  a  master  mechanic  in  the  craft  of  expression, 
Bacon  has  a  secret  of  higher  strength  than  any  art  can  give.  He 
held  his  intellect  ad  utihtates  humanas,  for  the  service  of  mankind. 
While  others  before  him  had  cultivated  philosophy  in  the  hope  of 
becoming  superior  to  humanity,  he  sought  to  serve  the  every-day 
needs  of  humanity  through  philosophy.  (<  Let  him  that  is  greatest 
among  you  be  your  servant w  is  the  sentence  which  inspired  his 
"Novum  Organum" — his  "new  method  w  of  using  the  intellect.  The 
old  philosophy  sought  to  make  an  exclusive  class  of  spiritual  and  in- 
tellectual aristocrats.  Bacon  sought  to  liberate  the  universal  mind  of 
man  from  its  shackling  inefficiency. 


3io  FRANCIS   BACON 

«To  sum  up  the  whole, w  says  Macaulay,  <(we  should  say  that  the  aim  of 
the  Platonic  philosophy  was  to  exalt  man  into  a  god.  The  aim  of  the  Bacon- 
ian philosophy  was  to  provide  man  with  what  he  requires  while  he  continues 
to  be  man.  The  aim  of  the  Platonic  philosophy  was  to  raise  us  far  above 
vulgar  wants.  The  aim  of  the  Baconian  philosophy  was  to  supply  our  vulgar 
wants.  The  former  aim  was  noble,  but  the  latter  was  attainable.  Plato  drew 
a  good  bow,  but,  like  Acestes  in  Virgil,  he  aimed  at  the  stars;  and  therefore, 
though  there  was  no  want  of  strength  or  skill,  the  shot  was  thrown  away.  His 
arrow  was  indeed  followed  by  a  track  of  dazzling  radiance,  but  it  struck 
nothing:  — 

(  Volans  liquidis  in  nubibus  arsit  arundo 
Signavitque  viam  flanunis,  tetiuisque  recessit 
Consumata  in  ventos? 


« Bacon  fixed  his  eye  on  a  mark  which  was  placed  on  the  earth  and  within 
bowshot,  and  hit  it  in  the  white.  The  philosophy  of  Plato  began  in  words 
and  ended  in  words  —  noble  words  indeed  —  words  such  as  were  to  be  expected 
from  the  finest  of  human  intellects  exercising  boundless  dominion  over  the 
finest  of  human  languages.  The  philosophy  of  Bacon  began  in  observations 
and  ended  in  arts. 

«The  boast  of  the  ancient  philosophers  was  that  their  doctrine  formed  the 
minds  of  men  to  a  high  degree  of  wisdom  and  virtue.  This  was  indeed  the 
only  practical  good  which  the  most  celebrated  of  those  teachers  even  pretended 
to  effect;  and  undoubtedly  if  they  had  effected  this,  they  would  have  deserved 
the  greatest  praise.  But  the  truth  is,  that  in  those  very  matters  in  which 
alone  they  professed  to  do  any  good  to  mankind,  in  those  matters  for  the  sake 
of  which  they  neglected  all  the  vulgar  interests  of  mankind,  they  did  nothing, 
or  worse  than  nothing.  They  promised  what  was  impractical;  they  despised 
what  was  practical;  they  filled  the  world  with  long  words  and  long  beards; 
and  they  left  it  as  wicked  and  as  ignorant  as  they  found  it. 

«An  acre  in  Middlesex  is  better  than  a  principality  in  Utopia.  The  small- 
est actual  good  is  better  than  the  most  magnificent  promises  of  impossibilities. 
The  wise  man  of  the  Stoics  would,  no  doubt,  be  a  grander  object  than  a  steam 
engine.  But  there  are  steam  engines,  and  the  wise  man  of  the  Stoics  is  yet 
to  be  born.  A  philosophy  which  should  enable  a  man  to  feel  perfectly  happy 
while  in  agonies  of  pain  may  be  better  than  a  philosophy  which  assuages 
pain.  But  we  know  that  there  are  remedies  that  assuage  pain;  and  we  know 
that  the  ancient  sages  like  the  toothache  just  as  little  as  their  neighbors." 

Essay  on  «  Bacon.M 

Bacon  was  born  at  York  House  on  the  Strand,  January  22d,  1561, 
—  a  date  which  is  consequently  the  gnomon  of  the  real  beginning  of 
modern  times.  He  had  all  human  weaknesses  and  when  he  died 
April  9th,  1626,  he  had  illustrated  them  in  a  life  which  but  for  them 
we  could  not  surely  recognize  as  human,  so  great  was  the  intellect 
which  transfigured  it, — which,  in  spite  of  every  weakness  incident  to 


FRANCIS    BACON  311 

his  humanity,  wrought  through  him  the  beginning  of  that  <(  novus  ordo 
sceculorum*  which  has  embodied  the  results  of  the  crucifixion  in  the 
Christianity  of  the  steam  engine  and  the  electric  motor. 

W.  V.  B. 


OF   TRUTH 

What  is  truth  ?  said  jesting  Pilate ;  and  would  not  stay  for 
an  answer.  Certainly  there  be  that  delight  in  giddiness; 
and  count  it  a  bondage  to  fix  a  belief;  affecting  free  will 
in  thinking,  as  well  as  in  acting.  And  though  the  sect  of  phi- 
losophers of  that  kind  be  gone,  yet  there  remain  certain  discours- 
ing wits,  which  are  of  the  same  veins,  though  there  be  not  so 
much  blood  in  them  as  was  in  those  of  the  Ancients.  But  it  is 
not  only  the  difficulty  and  labor  which  men  take  in  finding  out  the 
truth;  nor  again,  that,  when  it  is  found,  it  imposeth  upon  men's 
thoughts  that  doth  bring  lies  in  favor:  but  a  natural  though 
corrupt  love  of  the  lie  itself.  One  of  the  later  school  of  the 
Grecians  examineth  the  matter,  and  is  at  a  stand  to  think  what 
should  be  in  it,  that  men  should  love  lies;  where  neither  they 
make  for  pleasure,  as  with  poets;  nor  for  advantage,  as  with  the 
merchant;  but  for  the  lie's  sake.  But  I  cannot  tell:  this  same 
truth  is  a  naked  and  open  daylight  that  doth  not  show  the  masks, 
and  mummeries,  and  triumphs  of  the  world  half  so  stately  and 
daintily  as  candlelights.  Truth  may  perhaps  come  to  the  price 
of  a  pearl,  that  showeth  best  by  day;  but  it  will  not  rise  to  the 
price  of  a  diamond  or  carbuncle,  that  showeth  best  in  varied 
lights.  A  mixture  of  a  lie  doth  ever  add  pleasure.  Doth  any 
man  doubt  that  if  there  were  taken  out  of  men's  minds  vain 
opinions,  flattering  hopes,  false  valuations,  imaginations  as  one 
would,  and  the  like,  but  it  would  leave  the  minds  of  a  number 
of  men  poor,  shrunken  things,  full  of  melancholy  and  indispo- 
sition, and  unpleasing  to  themselves  ?  One  of  the  fathers,  in 
great  severity,  called  poesy  *  vinum  dcemonum*  becaiise  it  filleth 
the  imagination,  and  yet  it  is  but  with  the  shadow  of  a  lie.  But 
it  is  not  the  lie  that  passeth  through  the  mind,  but  the  lie  that 
sinketh  in,  and  settleth  in  it,  that  doth  the  hurt,  such  as  we 
spake  of  before.  But  howsoever  these  things  are  thus  in  men's 
depraved  judgments  and  affections,  yet  truth,  which  only  doth 
judge  itself,  teacheth  that  the  inquiry  of  truth,  which  is  the  love- 
making,  or   wooing  of  it;    the  knowledge  of  truth,  which  is  the 


312 


FRANCIS   BACON 


presence  of  it;  and  the  belief  of  truth,  which  is  the  enjoying  of 
it,  is  the  sovereign  good  of  human  nature.  The  first  creature  of 
God,  in  the  works  of  the  days,  was  the  light  of  the  sense;  the 
last  was  the  light  of  reason;  and  his  Sabbath  work  ever  since  is 
the  illumination  of  his  spirit.  First  he  breathed  light  upon  the 
face  of  the  matter,  or  chaos;  then  he  breathed  light  into  the  face 
of  man;  and  still  he  breatheth  and  inspireth  light  into  the  face  of 
his  chosen.  The  poet  that  beautified  the  sect,  that  was  other- 
wise inferior  to  the  rest,  saith  yet  excellently  well:  (<It  is  a 
pleasure  to  stand  upon  the  shore  and  to  see  ships  tossed  upon 
the  sea ;  a  pleasure  to  stand  in  the  window  of  a  castle  and  to 
see  a  battle  and  the  adventures  thereof  below:  but  no  pleasure 
is  comparable  to  the  standing  upon  the  vantage  ground  of  truth, 
(a  hill  not  to  be  commanded,  and  where  the  air  is  always  clear 
and  serene)  and  to  see  the  errors,  and  wanderings,  and  mists, 
and  tempests,  in  the  vale  below w:  so  always,  that  this  prospect 
be  with  pity,  and  not  with  swelling  or  pride.  Certainly,  it  is 
heaven  upon  earth  to  have  a  man's  mind  move  in  charity,  rest 
in  Providence,  and  turn  upon  the  poles  of  truth. 

To  pass  from  theological  and  philosophical  truth  to  the  truth 
of  civil  business;  it  will  be  acknowledged,  even  by  those  that 
practice  it  not,  that  clear  and  round  dealing  is  the  honor  of 
man's  nature;  and  that  mixture  of  falsehood  is  like  alloy  in  coin 
of  gold  and  silver,  which  may  make  the  metal  work  the  better, 
but  it  embaseth  it.  For  these  winding  and  crooked  courses  are 
the  goings  of  the  serpent;  which  goeth  basely  upon  the  belly, 
and  not  upon  the  feet.  There  is  no  vice  that  doth  so  cover  a 
man  with  shame,  as  to  be  found  false  and  perfidious.  And 
therefore  Montaigne  saith  prettily,  when  he  inquired  the  reason 
why  the  word  of  the  lie  should  be  such  a  disgrace,  and  such  an 
odious  charge.  Saith  he,  « If  it  be  well  weighed,  to  say  that  a 
man  lieth,  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  is  brave  towards  God, 
and  a  coward  towards  men.  For  a  lie  faces  God,  and  shrinks 
from  man."  Surely  the  wickedness  of  falsehood  and  breach  of 
faith  cannot  possibly  be  so  highly  expressed,  as  in  that  it  shall 
be  the  last  peal  to  call  the  judgments  of  God  upon  the  genera- 
tions of  men;  it  being  foretold,  that  when  Christ  cometh  <(he 
shall  not  find  faith  upon  the  earth. w 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. w 


FRANCIS   BACON  313 


OF    DEATH 


Men  fear  death,  as  children  fear  to  go  in  the  dark ;  and  as 
that  natural  fear  in  children  is  increased  with  tales,  so  is 
the  other.  Certainly,  the  contemplation  of  death,  as  the 
wages  of  sin,  and  passage  to  another  world,  is  holy  and  religious; 
but  the  fear  of  it,  as  a  tribute  due  unto  nature,  is  weak.  Yet  in 
religious  meditations,  there  is  sometimes  mixture  of  vanity  and 
of  superstition.  You  shall  read  in  some  of  the  friars'  books  of 
mortification,  that  a  man  should  think  with  himself,  what  the 
pain  is,  if  he  have  but  his  finger's  end  pressed  or  tortured;  and 
thereby  imagine  what  the  pains  of  death  are,  when  the  whole 
body  is  corrupted  and  dissolved;  when  many  times  death  passeth 
with  less  pain  than  the  torture  of  a  limb;  for  the  most  vital  parts 
are  not  the  quickest  of  sense.  And  by  him  that  spake  only  as  a 
philospher,  and  natural  man,  it  was  well  said,  <c  Pompa  mortis 
magis  terret,  quam  mors  ipsa."  Groans  and  convulsions,  and  a 
discolored  face,  and  friends  weeping,  and  blacks,  and  obsequies, 
and  the  like,  show  death  terrible.  It  is  worthy  the  observing 
that  there  is  no  passion  in  the  mind  of  man  so  weak  but  it 
mates  and  masters  the  fear  of  death;  and  therefore  death  is  no 
such  terrible  enemy,  when  a  man  hath  so  many  attendants  about 
him,  that  can  win  the  combat  of  him.  Revenge  triumphs  over 
death;  love  slights  it;  honor  aspireth  to  it;  grief  flieth  to  it; 
fear  preoccupateth  it;  nay,  we  read,  after  Otho  the  emperor  had 
slain  himself,  pity,  which  is  the  tenderest  of  affections,  provoked 
many  to  die,  out  of  mere  compassion  to  their  sovereign,  and  as 
the  truest  sort  of  followers.  Nay,  Seneca  adds,  niceness  and  sa- 
tiety; <(  cogita  quamdiu  eadem  feceris ;  mori  velle,  non  tantum  for- 
tis,  aut  miser,  sed  etiam  fastidiosus  potest."  A  man  would  die, 
though  he  were  neither  valiant,  nor  miserable,  only  upon  a  weari- 
ness to  do  the  same  thing  so  oft  over  and  over.  It  is  no  less 
worthy  to  observe  how  little  alteration  in  good  spirits  the  ap- 
proaches of  death  make;  for  they  appear  to  be  the  same  men 
till  the  last  instant.  Augustus  Caesar  died  in  a  compliment; 
(<  Livia,  conjugii  nostri,  memor  vive,  et  vale. w  Tiberius  in  dissim- 
ulation; as  Tacitus  saith  of  him:  <(  Jam  Tiberium  vires  et  corpus, 
non  dissimulatio,  dcserebant."  Vespasian  in  a  jest;  sitting  upon 
the  stool :  <(  Ut  puto,  Dcus  fio.  °  Galba  with  a  sentence :  <(  Feri, 
si  ex  re  sit  populi  Romani,"  holding   forth   his  neck.     Septimius 


314  FRANCIS    BACON 

Severus  in  despatch:  l(Adeste,  si  quid  mihi  restat  agendum* ;  and 
the  like.  Certainly  the  Stoics  bestowed  too  much  cost  upon 
death,  and  by  their  great  preparations  made  it  appear  more  fear- 
ful. Better  saith  he :  (<  Qui  finem  vitce  extremum  inter  munera 
ponit  naturcc*  It  is  as  natural  to  die,  as  to  be  born;  and  to  a 
little  infant,  perhaps,  the  one  is  as  painful  as  the  other.  He 
that  dies  in  an  earnest  pursuit  is  like  one  that  is  wounded  in 
hot  blood;  who,  for  the  time,  scarce  feels  the  hurt;  and  there- 
fore a  mind  fixed  and  bent  upon  somewhat  that  is  good  doth 
avert  the  dolors  of  death;  but  above  all,  believe  it,  the  sweetest 
canticle  is  (<  Nunc  dimittis w ;  when  a  man  hath  obtained  worthy 
ends  and  expectations.  Death  hath  this  also;  that  it  openeth 
the  gate  to  good  fame,  and  extinguisheth  envy.  <(  Extinctus  ania- 
bitur  idem.* 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


OF    REVENGE 

Revenge  is  a  kind  of  wild  justice,  which  the  more  a  man  s 
nature  runs  to,  the  more  ought  law  to  weed  it  out.  For 
as  for  the  first  wrong,  it  doth  but  offend  the  law;  but  the 
revenge  of  that  wrong  putteth  the  law  out  of  office.  Certainly 
in  taking  revenge,  a  man  is  but  even  with  his  enemy;  but  in 
passing  it  over  he  is  superior,  for  it  is  a  prince's  part  to  par- 
don. And  Solomon,  I  am  sure,  saith :  (( It  is  the  glory  of  a  man 
to  pass  by  an  offense. w  That  which  is  past  is  gone  and  irrevo- 
cable, and  wise  men  have  enough  to  do  with  things  present  and 
to  come:  therefore  they  do  but  trifle  with  themselves  that  labor 
in  past  matters.  There  is  no  man  doth  a  wrong  for  the  wrong's 
sake;  but  thereby  to  purchase  himself  profit,  or  pleasure,  or 
honor,  or  the  like.  Therefore  why  should  I  be  angry  with  a 
man  for  loving  himself  better  than  me  ?  And  if  any  man  should 
do  wrong,  merely  out  of  ill-nature,  why,  yet  it  is  but  like  the 
thorn  or  brier,  which  prick  and  scratch,  because  they  can  do  no 
other.  The  most  tolerable  sort  of  revenge  is  for  those  wrongs 
which  there  is  no  law  to  remedy;  but  then  let  a  man  take  heed 
the  revenge  be  such  as  there  is  no  law  to  punish;  else  a  man's 
enemy  is  still  beforehand,  and  it  is  two  for  one.  Some,  when 
they  take  revenge,  are  desirous  the  party  should  know  whence  it 
cometh:  this  is  the  more  generous.     For  the  delight  seemeth  to 


FRANCIS   BACON  315 

be  not  so  much  in  doing  the  hurt,  as  in  making  the  party  re- 
pent; but  base  and  crafty  cowards  are  like  the  arrow  that  fiieth 
in  the  dark.  Cosmus,  Duke  of  Florence,  had  a  desperate  saying 
against  perfidious  or  neglecting  friends,  as  if  those  wrongs  were 
unpardonable.  <(  You  shall  read,"  saith  he,  "that  we  are  com- 
manded to  forgive  our  enemies;  but  you  never  read  that  we  are 
commanded  to  forgive  our  friends. M  But  yet  the  spirit  of  Job 
was  in  a  better  tune:  "Shall  we,"  saith  he,  "take  good  at  God's 
hands,  and  not  be  content  to  take  evil  also  ?  °  And  so  of  friends 
in  a  proportion.  This  is  certain,  that  a  man  that  studieth  re- 
venge keeps  his  own  wounds  green,  which  otherwise  would  heal 
and  do  well.  Public  revenges  are  for  the  most  part  fortunate: 
as  that  for  the  death  of  Caesar;  for  the  death  of  Pertinax;  for 
the  death  of  Henry  III.  of  France,  and  many  more.  But  in  pri- 
vate revenges  it  is  not  so;  nay,  rather,  vindictive  persons  live  the 
life  of  witches,  who  as  they  are  mischievous,  so  end  they  unfor- 
tunate. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


OF   ADVERSITY 

It  was  a  high  speech  of  Seneca,  after  the  manner  of  the  Stoics, 
that  the  good  things  which  belong  to  prosperity  are  to  be 
wished,  but  the  good  things  that  belong  to  adversity  are  to 
be  admired:  *  Bona  return  secundarum  optabilia,  adversartim  mir- 
abilia*  Certainly  if  miracles  be  the  command  over  nature,  they 
appear  most  in  adversity.  It  is  yet  a  higher  speech  of  his  than 
the  other,  much  too  high  for  a  heathen,  (( It  is  true  greatness  to 
have  in  one  the  frailty  of  a  man  and  the  security  of  a  God.w 
Vere  magnum,  habere  fragilitatem  hominis  securitatem  Dei. 
This  would  have  done  better  in  poesy,  where  transcendencies  are 
more  allowed.  And  the  poets,  indeed,  have  been  busy  with  it, 
for  it  is  in  effect  the  thing  which  is  figured  in  that  strange  fic- 
tion of  the  ancient  poets,  which  seemeth  not  to  be  without  mys- 
tery; nay,  and  to  have  some  approach  to  the  state  of  a  Christian; 
that  Hercules,  when  he  went  to  unbind  Prometheus,  by  whom 
human  nature  is  represented,  sailed  the  length  of  the  great  ocean 
in  an  earthen  pot  or  pitcher;  lively  describing  Christian  resolu- 
tion, that  saileth  in  the  frail  bark  of  the  flesh  through  the  waves 
of  the  world.     But  to  speak  in  a  mean:  the  virtue  of  prosperity 


316  FRANCIS    BACON 

is  temperance;  the  virtue  of  adversity  is  fortitude,  which  in 
morals  is  the  more  heroical  virtue.  Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of 
the  Old  Testament;  adversity  is  the  blessing  of  the  New,  which 
carrieth  the  greater  benediction  and  the  clearer  revelation  of 
God's  favor.  Yet,  even  in  the  Old  Testament,  if  you  listen  to 
David's  harp,  you  shall  hear  as  many  hearselike  airs  as  carols; 
and  the  pencil  of  the  Holy  Ghost  hath  labored  more  in  describ- 
ing the  afflictions  of  Job  than  the  felicities  of  Solomon.  Pros- 
perity is  not  without  many  fears  and  distastes;  and  adversity  is 
not  without  comforts  and  hopes.  We  see  in  needleworks  and 
embroideries  it  is  more  pleasing  to  have  a  lively  work  upon  a 
sad  and  solemn  ground  than  to  have  a  dark  and  melancholy 
work  upon  a  lightsome  ground.  Judge,  therefore,  of  the  pleasure 
of  the  heart  by  the  pleasure  of  the  eye.  Certainly  virtue  is  like 
precious  odors,  most  fragrant  when  they  are  incensed  or  crushed; 
for  prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice,  but  adversity  doth  best 
discover  virtue. 

Complete.     From  (( Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


OF   SIMULATION   AND   DISSIMULATION 

Dissimulation  is  but  a  faint  kind  of  policy,  or  wisdom;   for  it 
asketh  a  strong  wit   and  a  strong  heart   to  know  when  to 
tell  truth  and  to  do  it.     Therefore,  it  is  the  weaker  sort  of 
politicians  that  are  the  great  dissemblers. 

Tacitus  saith,  Livia  sorted  well  with  the  arts  of  her  husband 
and  dissimulation  of  her  son;  attributing  arts  or  policy  to  Au- 
gustus and  dissimulation  to  Tiberius.  And  again,  when  Muci- 
anus  encourageth  Vespasian  to  take  arms  against  Vitellius,  he 
saith,  We  rise  not  against  the  piercing  judgment  of  Augustus, 
nor  the  extreme  caution  or  closeness  of  Tiberius.  These  proper- 
ties of  arts  or  policy,  and  dissimulation  or  closeness,  are  indeed 
habits  and  faculties  several,  and  to  be  distinguished.  For  if  a 
man  have  that  penetration  of  judgment  as  he  can  discern  what 
things  are  to  be  laid  open,  and  what  to  be  secreted,  and  what  to 
be  showed  at  half-lights,  and  to  whom  and  when,  which  indeed 
are  arts  of  state,  and  arts  of  life,  as  Tacitus  well  calleth  them, 
to  him  a  habit  of  dissimulation  is  a  hindrance  and  a  poorness. 
But  if  a  man  cannot  obtain  to  that  judgment,  then  it  is  left  to 
him,  generally,  to  be  close  and  a  dissembler.     For  where  a  man 


FRANCIS   BACON  317 

cannot  choose,  or  vary  in  particulars,  there  it  is  good  to  take  the 
safest  and  wariest  way  in  general;  like  the  going  softly  by  one 
that  cannot  well  see.  Certainly  the  ablest  men  that  ever  were 
have  had  all  an  openness  and  frankness  of  dealing  and  a  name 
of  certainty  and  veracity;  but  then  they  were  like  horses  well 
managed,  for  they  could  tell  passing  well  when  to  stop  or  turn : 
and  at  such  times,  when  they  thought  the  case  indeed  required 
dissimulation,  if  then  they  used  it,  it  came  to  pass  that  the 
former  opinion  spread  abroad  of  their  good  faith,  and  clearness 
of  dealing  made  them  almost  invisible. 

There  be  three  degrees  of  this  hiding  and  veiling  of  a  man's 
self.  The  first,  closeness,  reservation,  and  secrecy,  when  a  man 
leaveth  himself  without  observation,  or  without  hold  to  be  taken, 
what  he  is.  The  second,  dissimulation  in  the  negative,  when  a 
man  lets  fall  signs  and  arguments,  that  he  is  not  that  he  is. 
And  a  third,  simulation  in  the  affirmative,  when  a  man  industri- 
ously and  expressly  feigns  and  pretends  to  be  that  he  is  not. 

For  the  first  of  these,  secrecy;  it  is  indeed  the  virtue  of  a 
confessor;  and  assuredly  the  secret  man  heareth  many  confes- 
sions; for  who  will  open  himself  to  a  blab  or  a  babbler?  but  if 
a  man  be  thought  secret,  it  inviteth  discovery;  as  the  more  close 
air  sucketh  in  the  more  open:  and  as  in  confession  the  revealing 
is  not  for  worldly  use,  but  for  the  ease  of  a  man's  heart,  so 
secret  men  come  to  knowledge  of  many  things  in  that  kind, 
while  men  rather  discharge  their  minds  than  impart  their  minds. 
In  a  few  words,  mysteries  are  due  to  secrecy.  Besides,  to  say 
truth,  nakedness  is  uncomely  as  well  in  mind  as  body;  and  it 
addeth  no  small  reverence  to  men's  manners  and  actions  if  they 
be  not  altogether  open.  As  for  talkers  and  futile  persons,  they 
are  commonly  vain  and  credulous  withal.  For  he  that  talketh 
what  he  knoweth  will  also  talk  what  he  knoweth  not.  There- 
fore set  it  down,  that  a  habit  of  secrecy  is  both  politic  and 
moral.  And  in  this  part  it  is  good  that  a  man's  face  give  his 
tongue  leave  to  speak.  For  the  discovery  of  a  man's  self  by  the 
tracts  of  his  countenance  is  a  great  weakness  and  betraying;  by 
how  much  it  is  many  times  mere  marked  and  believed  than 
man's  words. 

For  the  second,  which  is  dissimulation;  it  followeth  many 
times  upon  secrecy,  by  necessity:  so  that  he  that  will  be  secret 
must  be  a  dissembler  in  some  degree.  For  men  are  too  cunning 
to  suffer  a  man  to  keep  an  indifferent  carriage  between  both,  and 


318  FRANCIS    BACON 

to  be  secret,  without  swaying  the  balance  on  either  side.  They 
will  so  beset  a  man  with  questions,  and  draw  him  on,  and  pick 
it  out  of  him,  that,  without  an  absurd  silence,  he  must  show  an 
inclination  one  way;  or  if  he  do  not,  they  will  gather  as  much 
by  his  silence  as  by  his  speech.  As  for  equivocations,  or  oracu- 
lous  speeches,  they  cannot  hold  out  long.  So  that  no  man  can 
be  secret,  except  he  give  himself  a  little  scope  of  dissimulation, 
which  is  as  it  were  but  the  skirts  or  train  of  secrecy. 

But  for  the  third  degree,  which  is  simulation  and  false  profes- 
sion; that  I  hold  more  culpable  and  less  politic,  except  it  be  in 
great  and  rare  matters.  And  therefore  a  general  custom  of 
simulation,  which  is  this  last  degree,  is  a  vice  rising  either  of  a 
natural  falseness,  or  fearfulness,  or  of  a  mind  that  hath  some 
main  faults;  which  because  a  man  must  needs  disguise,  it  maketh 
him  practice  simulation  in  other  things,  lest  his  hand  should  be 
out  of  use. 

The  great  advantages  of  simulation  and  dissimulation  are 
three.  First,  to  lay  asleep  opposition,  and  to  surprise  For 
where  a  man's  intentions  are  published,  it  is  an  alarm  to  call  up 
all  that  are  against  them.  The  second  is,  to  reserve  a  man's 
self  a  fair  retreat:  for  if  a  man  engage  himself  by  a  manifest 
declaration,  he  must  go  through,  or  take  a  fall.  The  third  is, 
the  better  to  discover  the  mind  of  another;  for  to  him  that 
opens  himself,  men  will  hardly  show  themselves  adverse,  but  will 
fair  let  him  go  on,  and  turn  their  freedom  of  speech  to  freedom 
of  thought.  And  therefore  it  is  a  good  shrewd  proverb  of  the 
Spaniard,  Tell  a  lie,  and  find  a  truth.  As  if  there  were  no  way 
of  discovery  but  by  simulation.  There  be  also  three  disadvan- 
tages to  set  it  even.  The  first,  that  simulation  and  dissimulation 
commonly  carry  with  them  a  show  of  fearfulness,  which  in  any 
business  doth  spoil  the  feathers  of  round  flying  up  to  the  mark. 
The  second,  that  it  puzzleth  and  perplexeth  the  conceits  of  many, 
that  perhaps  would  otherwise  co-operate  with  him;  and  makes  a 
man  walk  almost  alone,  to  his  own  ends.  The  third  and  great- 
est is,  that  it  depriveth  a  man  of  one  of  the  most  principal 
instruments  for  action;  which  is  trust  and  belief.  The  best  com- 
position and  temperature  is,  to  have  openness  in  fame  and  opin- 
ion ;  secrecy  in  habit ;  dissimulation  in  seasonable  use ;  and  a 
power  to  feign,   if  there  be  no  remedy. 

Complete.     From  "Essays  Civil  and  Moral. w 


FRANCIS    BACON  319 


OF    PARENTS   AND   CHILDREN 


The  joys  of  parents  are  secret,  and  so  are  their  griefs  and 
fears;  they  cannot  utter  the  one,  nor  they  will  not  utter 
the  other.  Children  sweeten  labors,  but  they  make  mis- 
fortunes more  bitter;  they  increase  the  cares  of  life,  but  they 
mitigate  the  remembrance  of  death.  The  perpetuity  by  genera- 
tion is  common  to  beasts;  but  memory,  merit,  and  noble  works, 
are  proper  to  men:  and  surely  a  man  shall  see  the  noblest 
works  and  foundations  have  proceeded  from  childless  men;  which 
have  sought  to  express  the  images  of  their  minds,  where  those 
of  their  bodies  have  failed:  so  the  care  of  posterity  is  most  in 
them  that  have  no  posterity.  They  that  are  the  first  raisers  of 
their  houses  are  most  indulgent  towards  their  children,  behold- 
ing them  as  the  continuance  not  only  of  their  kind,  but  of  their 
work;  and  so  both  children  and  creatures. 

The  difference  in  affection  of  parents  towards  their  several 
children  is  many  times  unequal,  and  sometimes  unworthy, — espe- 
cially in  the  mother;  as  Solomon  saith:  (<  A  wise  son  rejoiceth 
the  father,  but  an  ungracious  son  shames  the  mother."  A  man 
shall  see,  where  there  is  a  house  full  of  children,  one  or  two  of 
the  eldest  respected,  and  the  youngest  made  wantons;  but  in  the 
midst,  some  that  are  as  it  were  forgotten,  who  many  times  never- 
theless prove  the  best.  The  illiberality  of  parents  in  allowance 
towards  their  children  is  a  harmful  error;  makes  them  base, 
acquaints  them  with  shifts,  makes  them  sort  with  mean  com- 
pany, and  makes  them  surfeit  more  when  they  come  to  plenty: 
and  therefore  the  proof  is  best  when  men  keep  their  authority 
towards  their  children,  but  not  their  purse.  Men  have  a  foolish 
manner,  both  parents,  and  schoolmasters,  and  servants,  in  creat- 
ing and  breeding  an  emulation  between  brothers  during  child- 
hood, which  many  times  sorteth  to  discord  when  they  are  men, 
and  disturbeth  families.  The  Italians  make  little  difference  be- 
tween children  and  nephews,  or  near  kinsfolks;  but  so  they  be 
of  the  lump  they  care  not,  though  they  pass  not  through  their 
own  body.  And,  to  say  truth,  in  nature  it  is  much  a  like  mat- 
ter; insomuch  that  we  see  a  nephew  sometimes  resembleth  an 
uncle,  or  a  kinsman,  more  than  his  own  parent;  as  the  blood 
happens.  Let  parents  choose  betimes  the  vocations  and  courses 
they  mean  their  children  should  take, —  for   then   they  are   most 


320  FRANCIS   BACON 

flexible:  and  let  them  not  too  much  apply  themselves  to  the  dis- 
position of  their  children,  as  thinking  they  will  take  best  to  that 
which  they  have  most  mind  to.  It  is  true,  that  if  the  affection 
or  aptness  of  the  children  be  extraordinary,  then  it  is  good  not 
to  cross  it:  but  generally  the  precept  is  good,  <( Optimum  elige, 
suave  et  facile  Mud  faciet  consuetudo*  Younger  brothers  are 
commonly   fortunate,  but    seldom   or   never   where   the  elder  are 

disinherited. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. }> 


OF   MARRIAGE   AND   SINGLE   LIFE 

He  that  hath  wife  and  children  hath  given  hostages  to  for- 
tune; for  they  are  impediments  to  great  enterprises,  either 
of  virtue  or  mischief.  Certainly  the  best  works  and  of 
greatest  merit  for  the  public  have  proceeded  from  the  unmarried 
or  childless  men:  which  both  in  affection  and  means  have  mar- 
ried and  endowed  the  public.  Yet  it  were  great  reason  that 
those  that  have  children  should  have  greatest  care  of  future 
times  unto  which  they  know  they  must  transmit  their  dearest 
pledges.  Some  there  are,  who  though  they  lead  a  single  life, 
yet  their  thoughts  do  end  with  themselves,  and  account  future 
times  impertinences.  Nay,  there  are  some  other  that  account 
wife  and  children  but  as  bills  of  charges.  Nay,  more,  there  are 
some  foolish  rich  covetous  men,  that  take  a  pride  in  having  no 
children  because  they  may  be  thought  so  much  the  richer.  For 
perhaps  they  have  heard  some  talk,  Such  a  one  is  a  great  rich 
man;  and  another  except  to  it,  Yea,  but  he  hath  a  great  charge 
of  children, —  as  if  it  were  an  abatement  to  his  riches.  But  the 
most  ordinary  cause  of  a  single  life  is  liberty;  especially  in  cer- 
tain self-pleasing  and  humorous  minds,  which  are  so  sensible  of 
every  restraint,  as  they  will  go  near  to  think  their  girdles  and 
garters  to  be  bonds  and  shackles.  Unmarried  men  are  best 
friends,  best  masters,  best  servants,  but  not  always  best  subjects; 
for  they  are  light  to  run  away:  and  almost  all  fugitives  are  of 
that  condition.  A  single  life  doth  well  with  churchmen:  for 
charity  will  hardly  water  the  ground,  where  it  must  first  fill  a 
pool.  It  is  indifferent  for  judges  and  magistrates:  for  if  they  be 
facile  and  corrupt,  you  shall  have  a  servant  five  times  worse 
than    a    wife.      For    soldiers,    I    find    the    generals    commonly,  in 


FRANCIS    BACON  32  I 

their  hortatives,  put  men  in  mind  of  their  wives  and  children. 
And  I  think  the  despising  of  marriage  amongst  the  Turks  maketh 
the  vulgar  soldiers  more  base.  Certainly,  wife  and  children  are 
a  kind  of  discipline  of  humanity;  and  single  men,  though  they 
be  many  times  more  charitable,  because  their  means  are  less 
exhaust,  yet,  on  the  other  side,  they  are  more  cruel  and  hard- 
hearted, good  to  make  severe  inquisitors,  because  their  tenderness 
is  not  so  oft  called  upon.  Grave  natures,  led  by  custom,  and 
therefore  constant,  are  commonly  loving  husbands;  as  was  said  of 
Ulysses, <(  Vetulam  snam  prcetnlit  immortalitati. n  Chaste  women  are 
often  proud  and  froward,  as  presuming  upon  the  merit  of  their 
chastity.  It  is  one  of  the  best  bonds,  both  of  chastity  and  obedi- 
ence, in  the  wife,  if  she  think  her  husband  wise:  which  she  will 
never  do  if  she  find  him  jealous.  Wives  are  young  men's  mis- 
tresses; companions  for  middle  ages;  and  old  men's  nurses.  So 
as  a  man  may  have  a  quarrel  to  marry  when  he  will.  But  yet 
he  was  reputed  one  of  the  wise  men,  that  made  answer  to  the 
question,  when  a  man  should  marry :  (<  A  young  man  not  yet, 
an  elder  man  not  at  all."  It  is  often  seen  that  bad  husbands 
have  very  good  wives;  whether  it  be  that  it  raiseth  the  price  of 
their  husbands'  kindness  when  it  comes,  or  that  the  wives  take 
a  pride  in  their  patience.  But  this  never  fails  if  the  bad  hus- 
bands were  of  their  own  choosing,  against  their  friends'  consent; 
for  then  they  will  be  sure  to  make  good  their  own  folly. 

Complete.     From  <(  Essays  Civil  and  Moral.  *> 


OF    ENVY 

There  be  none  of  the  affections  which  have  been  noted  to  fas- 
cinate  or   bewitch,    but   love    and    envy       They   both    have 

vehement  wishes;  they  frame  themselves  readily  into  imagi- 
nations and  suggestions:  and  they  come  easily  into  the  eye; 
especially  upon  the  presence  of  the  objects;  which  are  the  points 
that  conduce  to  fascination,  if  any  such  thing  there  be.  We  see 
likewise,  the  Scripture  calleth  envy  an  evil  eye:  and  the  astrolo- 
gers call  the  evil  influences  of  the  stars  evil  aspects;  so  that  still 
there  seemeth  to  be  acknowledged  in  the  act  of  envy  an  ejacu- 
lation, or  irradiation  of  the  eye.  Nay,  some  have  been  so  curi- 
ous as  to  note  that  the  times  when  the  stroke  or  percussion  of 
an   envious   eye  doth   most  hurt    are    when   the   party  envied   is 

1 — 21 


322 


FRANCIS   BACON 


beheld  in  glory  or  triumph;  for  that  sets  an  edge  upon  envy: 
and,  besides,  at  such  times,  the  spirits  of  the  person  envied  do 
come  forth  most  into  the  outward  parts,  and  so  meet  the  blow. 

But  leaving  these  curiosities,  though  not  unworthy  to  be  thought 
on  in  fit  place,  we  will  handle  what  persons  are  apt  to  envy 
others,  what  persons  are  most  subject  to  be  envied  themselves, 
and  what  is  the  difference  between  public  and  private  envy. 

A  man  that  hath  no  virtue  in  himself  ever  envieth  virtue  in 
others.  For  men's  minds  will  either  feed  upon  their  own  good, 
or  upon  others'  evil;  and  who  wanteth  the  one  will  prey  upon 
the  other;  and  whoso  is  out  of  hope  to  attain  to  another's  virtue 
will  seek  to  come  at  even   hand  by  depressing  another's  fortune. 

A  man  that  is  busy  and  inquisitive  is  commonly  envious,  for 
to  know  much  of  other  men's  matters  cannot  be,  because  all  that 
ado  may  concern  his  own  estate;  therefore  it  must  needs  be  that 
he  taketh  a  kind  of  play-pleasure  in  looking  upon  the  fortunes 
of  others.  Neither  can  he  that  mindeth  but  his  own  business  find 
much  matter  for  envy.  For  envy  is  a  gadding  passion,  and 
walketh  the  streets,  and  doth  not  keep  home ;  (<  Non  est  ciiriosus, 
quin  idem  sit  malevolns* 

Men  of  noble  birth  are  noted  to  be  envious  towards  new  men 
when  they  rise,  for  the  distance  is  altered,  and  it  is  like  a  deceit 
of  the  eye  that  when  others  come  on  they  think  themselves  go 
back. 

Deformed  persons  and  eunuchs,  and  old  men  and  bastards,  are 
envious,  for  he  that  cannot  possibly  mend  his  own  case  will  do 
what  he  can  to  impair  another's, —  except  these  defects  light  upon 
a  very  brave  and  heroical  nature,  which  thinketh  to  make  his 
natural  wants  part  of  his  honor,  in  that  it  should  be  said  that 
an  eunuch  or  a  lame  man  did  such  great  matters,  affecting  the 
honor  of  a  miracle;  as  it  was  in  Narses  the  eunuch,  and  Agesi- 
laus  and  Tamerlane  that  were  lame  men. 

The  same  is  the  case  of  men  that  rise  after  calamities  and 
misfortunes;  for  they  are  as  men  fallen  out  of  the  times,  and 
think  other  men's  harms  a  redemption  of   their  own  sufferings. 

They  that  desire  to  excel  in  too  many  matters,  out  of  levity 
and  vainglory,  are  ever  envious,  for  they  cannot  want  work,  it 
being  impossible  but  many,  in  some  one  of  those  things,  should 
surpass  them.  Which  was  the  character  of  Adrian  the  emperor, 
that  mortally  envied  poets,  and  painters,  and  artificers,  in  works 
wherein  he  had  a  vein  to  excel. 


FRANCIS   BACON  323 

Lastly,  near  kinsfolks,  and  fellows  in  office,  and  those  that 
have  been  bred  together,  are  more  apt  to  envy  their  equals  when 
they  are  raised.  For  it  doth  upbraid  unto  them  their  own  for- 
tunes, and  pointeth  at  them,  and  cometh  oftener  in  their  remem- 
brance, and  incurreth  likewise  more  into  the  note  of  others;  and 
envy  ever  redoubleth  from  speech  and  fame.  Cain's  envy  was 
the  more  vile  and  malignant  towards  his  brother  Abel,  because, 
when  his  sacrifice  was  better  accepted,  there  was  nobody  to  look 
on.     Thus  much  for  those  that  are  apt  to  envy. 

Concerning  those  that  are  more  or  less  subject  to  envy:  First, 
persons  of  eminent  virtue,  when  they  are  advanced,  are  less  en- 
vied, for  their  fortune  seemeth  but  due  unto  them,  and  no 
man  envieth  the  payment  of  a  debt,  but  rewards  and  liberality 
rather.  Again  envy  is  ever  joined  with  the  comparing  of  a 
man's  self,  and  where  there  is  no  comparison,  no  envy;  and 
therefore  kings  are  not  envied  but  by  kings.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
to  be  noted  that  unworthy  persons  are  most  envied  at  their  first 
coming  in,  and  afterwards  overcome  it  better;  whereas,  contrari- 
wise, persons  of  worth  and  merit  are  most  envied  when  their 
fortunes  continueth  long.  For  by  that  time,  though  their  virtue 
be  the  same,  yet  it  hath  not  the  same  lustre;  for  fresh  men  grow 
up  that  darken  it. 

Persons  of  noble  blood  are  less  envied  in  their  rising,  for  it 
seemeth  but  right  done  to  their  birth;  besides,  there  seemeth  not 
much  added  to  their  fortune,  and  envy  is  as  the  sunbeams  that 
beat  hotter  upon  a  bank  or  steep  rising  ground  than  upon  a  fiat. 
And  for  the  same  reason,  those  that  are  advanced  by  degrees  are 
less  envied  than  those  that  are  advanced  suddenly,  and  per 
saltum. 

Those  that  have  joined  with  their  honor  great  travels,  cares, 
or  perils,  are  less  subject  to  envy,  for  men  think  that  they  earn 
their  honors  hardly,  and  pity  them  sometimes;  and  pity  ever 
healeth  envy:  wherefore  you  shall  observe  that  the  more  deep 
and  sober  sort  of  politic  persons,  in  their  greatness,  are  ever  be- 
moaning themselves  what  a  life  they  lead,  chanting  a  Quanta 
patimur, —  not  that  they  feel  it  so,  but  only  to  abate  the  edge  of 
envy.  But  this  is  to  be  understood  of  business  that  is  laid  upon 
men,  and  not  such  as  they  call  unto  themselves,  for  nothing  in- 
creaseth  envy  more  than  an  unnecessary  and  ambitious  engrossing 
of  business;  and  nothing  doth  extinguish  envy  more  than  for  a 
great   person   to   preserve  all  other   inferior  officers  in  their  full 


324  FRANCIS   BACON 

rights  and  pre-eminences  of  their  places, —  for  by  that  means  there 
be  so  many  screens  between  him  and  envy. 

Above  all,  those  are  most  subject  to  envy,  which  carry  the 
greatness  of  their  fortunes  in  an  insolent  and  proud  manner, 
being  never  well  but  while  they  are  showing  how  great  they  are, 
either  by  outward  pomp  or  by  triumphing  over  all  opposition  or 
competition;  whereas  wise  men  will  rather  do  sacrifice  to  envy, 
in  suffering  themselves  sometimes  of  purpose  to  be  crossed  and 
overborne  in  things  that  do  not  much  concern  them.  Notwith- 
standing, so  much  is  true:  that  the  carriage  of  greatness  in  a 
plain  and  open  manner,  so  it  be  without  arrogancy  and  vain- 
glory, doth  draw  less  envy  than  if  it  be  in  a  more  crafty  and 
cunning  fashion.  For  in  that  course  a  man  doth  but  disavow 
fortune,  and  seemeth  to  be  conscious  of  his  own  want  in  worth, 
and  doth  but  teach  others  to  envy  him. 

Lastly,  to  conclude  this  part,  as  we  said  in  the  beginning 
that  the  act  of  envy  had  somewhat  in  it  of  witchcraft,  so  there 
is  no  other  cure  of  envy  but  the  cure  of  witchcraft,  and  that  is 
to  remove  the  lot,  as  they  call  it,  and  to  lay  it  upon  another. 
For  which  purpose  the  wiser  sort  of  great  persons  bring  in  ever 
upon  the  stage  somebody  upon  whom  to  derive  the  envy  that 
would  come  upon  themselves:  sometimes  upon  ministers  and 
servants,  sometimes  upon  colleagues  and  associates,  and  the  like; 
and  for  that  turn,  there  are  never  wanting  some  persons  of  vio- 
lent and  undertaking  natures,  who,  so  they  may  have  power  and 
business,  will  take  it  at  any  cost. 

Now  to  speak  of  public  envy.  There  is  yet  some  good  in 
public  envy,  whereas  in  private  there  is  none.  For  public  envy 
is  as  an  ostracism,  that  eclipseth  men  when  they  grow  too  great; 
and  therefore  it  is  a  bridle  also  to  great  ones,  to  keep  them  within 
bounds. 

This  envy,  being  in  the  Latin  word  invidia,  goeth  in  the  mod- 
ern languages  by  the  name  of  discontent, —  of  which  we  shall 
speak  in  handling  sedition.  It  is  a  disease  in  a  state  like  to  in- 
fection; for  as  infection  spreadeth  upon  that  which  is  sound,  and 
tainteth  it,  so  when  envy  is  gotten  once  into  a  state,  it  traduceth 
even  the  best  actions  thereof  and  turneth  them  into  an  ill  odor; 
and  therefore  there  is  little  won  by  intermingling  of  plausible- 
actions,  for  that  doth  argue  but  a  weakness  and  fear  of  envy, 
which  hurteth  so  much  the  more;  as  it  is  likewise  usual  in  in- 
fections, which  if  you  fear  them,  you  call  them  upon  you. 


FRANCIS  BACON  325 

This  public  envy  seemeth  to  beat  chiefly  upon  principal  offi- 
cers or  ministers,  rather  than  upon  kings  and  estates  themselves. 
But  this  is  a  sure  rule,  that  if  the  envy  upon  the  minister  be 
great,  when  the  cause  of  it  in  him  is  small,  or  if  the  envy  be 
general  in  a  manner  upon  all  the  ministers  of  an  estate,  then  the 
envy,  though  hidden,  is  truly  upon  the  estate  itself.  And  so  much 
of  public  envy  or  discontentment,  and  the  difference  thereof  from 
private  envy,  which  was  handled  in  the  first  place. 

We  will  add  this  in  general,  touching  the  affection  of  envy, 
that  of  all  other  affections  it  is  the  most  importune  and  continual, 
for  of  other  affections  there  is  occasion  given  but  now  and  then ; 
and  therefore  it  is  well  said:  a  hividia  fcstos  dies  non  agit*  for 
it  is  ever  working  upon  some  other.  And  it  is  also  noted,  that 
love  and  envy  do  make  a  man  pine,  which  other  affections  do 
not,  because  they  are  not  so  continual. 

It  is  also  the  vilest  affection,  and  the  most  depraved;  for  which 
cause  it  is  the  proper  attribute  of  the  devil,  who  is  called,  <(  the 
envious  man  that  soweth  tares  among  the  wheat  by  night, w  as 
it  always  cometh  to  pass  that  envy  worketh  subtly  and  in  the 
dark,  and  to  the  prejudice  of  good  things,  such  as  is  the  wheat. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. w 


OF   LOVE 

The  stage  is  more  beholden  to  love  than  the  life  of  man.  For 
as  to  the  stage,  love  is  ever  a  matter  of  comedies,  and  now 
and  then  of  tragedies;  but  in  life  it  doth  much  mischief, 
sometimes  like  a  siren,  sometimes  like  a  fury.  You  may  observe 
that  amongst  all  the  great  and  worthy  persons,  whereof  the  mem- 
ory remaineth,  either  ancient  or  recent,  there  is  not  one  that 
hath  been  transported  to  the  mad  degree  of  love;  which  shows 
that  great  spirits  and  great  business  do  keep  out  this  weak 
passion.  You  must  except  nevertheless  Marcus  Antonius  the  half 
partner  of  the  empire  of  Rome,  and  Appius  Claudius  the  decem- 
vir and  lawgiver;  whereof  the  former  was  indeed  a  voluptuous 
man  and  inordinate,  but  the  latter  was  an  austere  and  wise  man. 
And,  therefore  it  seems,  though  rarely,  that  love  can  find  entrance 
not  only  into  an  open  heart,  but  also  into  a  heart  well  fortified, 
if  watch   be   not   well   kept.       It   is   a   poor   saying   of  Epicurus: 


326  FRANCIS   BACON 

<(  Satis  magnum  alter  alteri  theatrum  sumus n;  as  if  man,  made 
for  the  contemplation  of  heaven,  and  all  noble  objects,  should  do 
nothing  but  kneel  before  a  little  idol,  and  make  himself  subject, 
though  not  of  the  mouth,  as  beasts  are,  yet  of  the  eye,  which 
was  given  him  for  higher  purposes.  It  is  a  strange  thing  to  note 
the  excess  of  this  passion,  and  how  it  braves  the  nature  and 
value  of  things  by  this,  that  the  speaking  in  a  perpetual  hyber- 
bole  is  comely  in  nothing  but  in  love.  Neither  is  it  merely  in 
the  phrase;  for  whereas  it  hath  been  well  said  that  the  arch 
flatterer,  with  whom  all  the  petty  flatterers  have  intelligence,  is 
a  man's  self;  certainly  the  lover  is  more.  For  there  was  never 
proud  man  thought  so  absurdly  well  of  himself  as  the  lover  doth 
of  the  person  loved;  and  therefore  it  was  well  said  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  love  and  to  be  wise.  Neither  doth  this  weakness  ap- 
pear to  others  only,  and  not  to  the  party  loved,  but  to  the  loved 
most  of  all;  except  the  love  be  reciproque.  For  it  is  a  true  rule 
that  love  is  ever  rewarded  either  with  the  reciproque,  or  with  an 
inward  and  secret  contempt:  by  how  much  the  more  men  ought 
to  beware  of  this  passion,  which  loseth  not  only  other  things  but 
itself.  As  for  the  other  losses,  the  poet's  relation  doth  well  figure 
them;  that  he  that  preferred  Helena  quitted  the  gifts  of  Juno 
and  Pallas:  for  whosoever  esteemeth  too  much  of  amorous  affec- 
tion quitteth  both  riches  and  wisdom.  This  passion  hath  its 
floods  in  the  very  times  of  weakness,  which  are  great  prosperity 
and  great  adversity, — though  this  latter  hath  been  less  observed: 
which  both  times  kindle  love,  and  make  it  more  fervent,  and 
therefore  show  it  to  be  the  child  of  folly.  They  do  best,  who,  if 
they  cannot  but  admit  love,  yet  make  it  keep  quarter,  and  sever 
it  wholly  from  their  serious  affairs  and  actions  of  life;  for  if  it 
check  once  with  business,  it  troubleth  men's  fortunes,  and  maketh 
men  that  they  can  no  ways  be  true  to  their  own  ends.  I  know 
not  how,  but  martial  men  are  given  to  love;  I  think  it  is  but  as 
they  are  given  to  wine,  for  perils  commonly  ask  to  be  paid  in 
pleasures.  There  is  in  man's  nature  a  secret  inclination  and  mo- 
tion towards  love  of  others,  which,  if  it  be  not  spent  upon  some 
one  or  a  few,  doth  naturally  spread  itself  towards  many,  and 
maketh  men  to  become  humane  and  charitable;  as  it  is  seen  some- 
times in  friars.  Nuptial  love  maketh  mankind,  friendly  love  per- 
fecteth  it,  but  wanton  love  corrupteth  and  embaseth  it. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


FRANCIS   BACON  327 


OF   GREAT   PLACE 


Men  in  great  place  are  thrice  servants:  servants  of  the  sov- 
ereign or  State,  servants  of  fame,  and  servants  of  busi- 
ness; so  as  they  have  no  freedom,  neither  in  their  persons, 
nor  in  their  actions,  nor  in  their  times.  It  is  a  strange  desire  to 
seek  power  and  to  lose  liberty;  or  to  seek  power  over  others  and 
to  lose  power  over  a  man's  self.  The  rising  unto  place  is  labo- 
rious; and  by  pains  men  come  to  greater  pains;  and  it  is  some- 
times base,  and  by  indignities  men  come  to  dignities.  The 
standing  is  slippery,  and  the  regress  is  either  a  downfall  or  at 
least  an  eclipse,  which  is  a  melancholy  thing.  (<  Cum  non  sis  qui 
fueris,  non  esse  cur  veils  vivere  ? *  Nay,  retire  men  cannot  when 
they  would;  neither  will  they  when  it  were  reason;  but  are  im- 
patient of  privateness,  even  in  age  and  sickness,  which  require 
the  shadow:  like  old  townsmen  that  will  be  still  sitting  at  their 
street  door,  though  thereby  they  offer  age  to  scorn.  Certainly 
great  persons  had  need  to  borrow  other  men's  opinions  to  think 
themselves  happy;  for  if  they  judge  by  their  own  feeling,  they 
cannot  find  it,  but  if  they  think  with  themselves  what  other  men 
think  of  them,  and  that  other  men  would  fain  be  as  they  are, 
then  they  are  happy  as  it  were  by  report,  when  perhaps  they 
find  the  contrary  within.  For  they  are  the  first  that  find  their 
own  griefs;  though  they  be  the  last  that  find  their  own  faults. 
Certainly  men  in  great  fortunes  are  strangers  to  themselves,  and 
while  they  are  in  the  puzzle  of  business  they  have  no  time  to 
tend  their  health,  either  of  body  or  mind.  ^  Illi  mors  gravis 
incubat,  qui  notus  nimis  omnibus,  ignotus  moritur  sibi.n  In  place 
there  is  license  to  do  good  and  evil,  whereof  the  latter  is  a  curse; 
for  in  evil  the  best  condition  is  not  to  will,  the  second  not  to 
can.  But  power  to  do  good  is  the  true  and  lawful  end  of  aspir- 
ing. For  good  thoughts,  though  God  accept  them,  yet  towards 
men  are  little  better  than  good  dreams,  except  they  be  put  in 
act;  and  that  cannot  be  without  power  and  place,  as  the  vantage 
and  commanding  ground.  Merit  and  good  works  is  the  end  of 
man's  motion;  and  conscience  of  the  same  is  the  accomplishment 
of  man's  rest.  For  if  a  man  can  be  partaker  of  God's  theatre, 
he  shall  likewise  be  partaker  of  God's  rest.  <c  Et  conversus  Deus, 
ut  aspiceret  opera,  quce  fecerunt  manus  suce,  vidit  quod  omnia  essent 
bona   nimis w ;   and   then   the    Sabbath.      In   the    discharge  of   thy 


328  FRANCIS    BACON 

place,  set  before  thee  the  best  examples;  for  imitation  is  a  globe 
of  precepts.  And  after  a  time  set  before  thee  thine  own  ex- 
ample, and  examine  thyself  strictly  whether  thou  didst  not  best 
at  first.  Neglect  not  also  the  examples  of  those  that  have  carried 
themselves  ill  in  the  same  place;  not  to  set  off  thyself  by  taxing 
their  memory,  but  to  direct  thyself  what  to  avoid.  Reform, 
therefore,  without  bravery  or  scandal  of  former  times  and  persons; 
but  yet  set  it  down  to  thyself,  as  well  to  create  good  precedents 
as  to  follow  them.  Reduce  things  to  the  first  institution,  and 
observe  wherein  and  how  they  have  degenerated;  but  yet  ask 
counsel  of  both  times:  of  the  ancient  time  what  is  best,  and  of 
the  latter  time  what  is  fittest.  Seek  to  make  thy  course  regular, 
that  men  may  know  beforehand  what  they  may  expect;  but  be 
not  too  positive  and  peremptory,  and  express  thyself  well  when 
thou  digressest  from  thy  rule.  Preserve  the  right  of  thy  place, 
but  stir  not  questions  of  jurisdiction:  and  rather  assume  thy 
right  in  silence  and  de  facto  than  voice  it  with  claims  and  chal- 
lenges. Preserve  likewise  the  rights  of  inferior  places,  and  think 
it  more  honor  to  direct  in  chief  than  to  be  busy  in  all.  Embrace 
and  invite  helps  and  advices  touching  the  execution  of  thy  place, 
and  do  not  drive  away  such  as  bring  thee  information,  as  med- 
dlers, but  accept  of  them  in  good  part.  The  vices  of  authority 
are  chiefly  four:  delays,  corruption,  roughness,  and  facility.  For 
delays:  give  easy  access,  keep  times  appointed,  go  through  with 
that  which  is  in  hand,  and  interlace  not  business  but  of  neces- 
sity. For  corruption:  do  not  only  bind  thine  own  hands  or  thy 
servant's  hand  from  taking,  but  bind  the  hands  of  suitors  also 
from  offering.  For  integrity  used  doth  the  one;  but  integrity 
professed  and  with  a  manifest  detestation  of  bribery  doth  the 
other;  and  avoid  not  only  the  fault,  but  the  suspicion.  Whoso- 
ever is  found  variable,  and  changeth  manifestly  without  manifest 
cause,  giveth  suspicion  of  corruption.  Therefore  always  when 
thou  changest  thine  opinion  or  course,  profess  it  plainly,  and  de- 
clare it,  together  with  the  reasons  that  move  thee  to  change; 
and  do  not  think  to  steal  it.  A  servant  or  a  favorite,  if  he  be  in- 
ward, and  no  other  apparent  cause  of  esteem,  is  commonly  thought 
but  a  byway  to  close  corruption.  For  roughness,  it  is  a  need- 
less cause  of  discontent;  severity  breedeth  fear,  but  roughness 
breedeth  hate.  Even  reproofs  from  authority  ought  to  be  grave, 
and  not  taunting.  As  for  facility,  it  is  worse  than  bribery.  For 
bribes    come    but    now    and    then;    but    if    importunity    or    idle 


FRANCIS   BACON  331 


OF    GOODNESS,  AND   GOODNESS   OF   NATURE 

I  take  goodness  in  this  sense,  the  affecting  of  the  weal  of  men, 
which  is  that  the  Grecians  call  pJiilantJiropia;  and  the  word 
humanity,  as  it  is  used,  is  a  little  too  light  to  express  it. 
Goodness  I  call  the  habit,  and  goodness  of  nature  the  inclination. 
This  of  all  virtues  and  dignities  of  the  mind  is  the  greatest,  be- 
ing the  character  of  the  Deity;  and  without  it  man  is  a  busy, 
mischievous,  wretched  thing,  no  better  than  a  kind  of  vermin. 
Goodness  answers  to  the  theological  virtue  charity,  and  admits 
no  excess  but  error.  The  desire  of  power  in  excess  caused  the 
angels  to  fall;  the  desire  of  knowledge  in  excess  caused  man  to 
fall:  but  in  charity  there  is  no  excess,  neither  can  angel  or  man 
come  in  danger  by  it.  The  inclination  to  goodness  is  imprinted 
deeply  in  the  nature  of  man;  insomuch,  that  if  it  issue  not 
towards  men,  it  will  take  unto  other  living  creatures,  as  it  is  seen 
in  the  Turks,  a  cruel  people,  who  nevertheless  are  kind  to  beasts 
and  give  alms  to  dogs  and  birds;  insomuch,  as  Busbechius  re- 
porteth,  a  Christian  boy  in  Constantinople  had  like  to  have  been 
stoned  for  gagging,  in  a  waggishness,  a  long-billed  fowl.  Errors, 
indeed,  in  this  virtue  of  goodness  or  charity  may  be  committed. 
The  Italians  have  an  ungracious  proverb:  (<  Tanto  buon  che  val 
niente* — so  good  that  he  is  good  for  nothing.  And  one  of  the 
doctors  of  Italy,  Nicholas  Machiavel,  had  the  confidence  to  put  in 
writing,  almost  in  plain  terms,  that  the  Christian  faith  had  given 
up  good  men  in  prey  to  those  that  are  tyrannical  and  unjust; 
which  he  spake,  because,  indeed,  there  was  never  law,  or  sect,  or 
opinion,  did  so  much  magnify  goodness  as  the  Christian  religion 
doth;  therefore,  to  avoid  the  scandal  and  the  danger  both,  it  is 
good  to  take  knowledge  of  the  errors  of  a  habit  so  excellent 
Seek  the  good  of  other  men,  but  be  not  in  bondage  to  their 
faces  or  fancies,  for  that  is  but  facility  or  softness  which  taketh 
an  honest  mind  prisoner.  Neither  give  thou  ^Esop's  cock  a  gem, 
who  would  be  better  pleased  and  happier  if  he  had  a  barley- 
corn. The  example  of  God  teacheth  the  lesson  truly:  ((  He  send- 
eth  his  rain  and  maketh  his  sun  to  shine  upon  the  just  and  the 
unjust. M  But  he  doth  not  rain  wealth  nor  shine  honor  and  vir- 
tues upon  men  equally;  common  benefits  are  to  be  communicated 
with  all,  but  peculiar  benefits  with  choice.  And  beware,  how  in 
making  the    portraiture    thou   breakest   the    pattern;    for    divinity 


332  FRANCIS   BACON 

maketh  the  love  of  ourselves  the  pattern,  the  love  of  our  neigh- 
bors but  the  portraiture :  (<  Sell  all  thou  hast,  and  give  it  to  the 
poor,  and  follow  me."  But  sell  not  all  thou  hast,  except  thou 
come  and  follow  me;  that  is,  except  thou  have  a  vocation, 
wherein  thou  mayest  do  as  much  good  with  little  means  as  with 
great;  for  otherwise,  in  feeding  the  streams  thou  driest  the  foun- 
tain. Neither  is  there  only  a  habit  of  goodness  directed  by  right 
reason;  but  there  is  in  some  men,  even  in  nature,  a  disposition 
towards  it,  as  on  the  other  side  there  is  a  natural  malignity. 
For  there  be  that  in  their  nature  do  not  affect  the  good  of 
others.  The  lighter  sort  of  malignity  turneth  but  to  a  crossness, 
or  frowardness,  or  aptness  to  oppose,  or  difficileness,  or  the  like, 
but  the  deeper  sort  to  envy  and  mere  mischief.  Such  men,  in 
other  men's  calamities,  are  as  it  were  in  season,  and  are  ever  on 
the  loading  part;  not  so  good  as  the  dogs  that  licked  Lazarus's 
sores,  but  like  flies  that  are  still  buzzing  upon  anything  that  is 
raw;  misanthropi,  that  make  it  their  practice  to  bring  men  to 
the  bough,  and  yet  have  never  a  tree  for  the  purpose  in  their 
gardens,  as  Timon  had.  Such  dispositions  are  the  very  er- 
rors of  human  nature,  and  yet  they  are  the  fittest  timber  to 
make  great  politics  of;  like  to  knee  timber,  that  is  good  for  ships 
that  are  ordained  to  be  tossed,  but  not  for  building  houses  that 
shall  stand  firm.  The  parts  and  signs  of  goodness  are  many.  If 
a  man  be  gracious  and  courteous  to  strangers,  it  shows  he  is  a 
citizen  of  the  world,  and  that  his  heart  is  no  island  cut  off  from 
other  lands,  but  a  continent  that  joins  to  them.  If  he  be  com- 
passionate towards  the  afflictions  of  others,  it  shows  that  his  heart 
is  like  the  noble  tree  that  is  wounded  itself  when  it  gives  the 
balm.  If  he  easily  pardons  and  remits  offenses,  it  shows  that  his 
mind  is  planted  above  injuries,  so  that  he  cannot  be  shot.  If  he 
be  thankful  for  small  benefits,  it  shows  that  he  weighs  men's 
minds  and  not  their  trash.  But,  above  all,  if  he  have  St.  Paul's 
perfection,  that  he  would  wish  to  be  an  anathema  from  Christ  for 
the  salvation  of  his  brethren,  it  shows  much  of  a  divine  nature, 
and  a  kind  of  conformity  with  Christ  himself. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


FRANCIS    BACON  333 


OF   ATHEISM 

I  had  rather  believe  all  the  fables  in  the  Legend,  and  the  Tal- 
mud, and  the  Alcoran,  than  that  this  universal  frame  is  with- 
out a  mind.  And  therefore  God  never  wrought  a  miracle  to 
convince  atheism,  because  his  ordinary  works  convince  it.  It  is 
true  that  a  little  philosophy  inclineth  man's  mind  to  atheism, 
but  depth  in  philosophy  bringeth  men's  minds  about  to  religion. 
For  while  the  mind  of  man  looketh  upon  second  causes  scattered, 
it  may  sometimes  rest  in  them,  and  go  no  further;  but  when  it 
beholdeth  the  chain  of  them  confederate  and  linked  together, 
it  must  needs  fly  to  Providence  and  Deity.  Nay,  even  that 
school  which  is  most  accused  of  atheism  doth  most  demonstrate 
religion;  that  is,  the  school  of  Leucippus,  and  Democritus,  and 
Epicurus.  For  it  is  a  thousand  times  more  credible  that  four 
mutable  elements  and  one  immutable  fifth  essence  duly  and 
eternally  placed  need  no  God,  than  that  an  army  of  infinite 
small  portions,  or  seeds  unplaced,  should  have  produced  this  or- 
der and  beauty  without  a  divine  marshal.  The  Scripture  saith: 
w  The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  There  is  no  God w ;  it  is  not 
said,  (<  The  fool  hath  thought  in  his  heart. B  So  as  he  rather 
saith  it  by  rote  to  himself,  as  that  he  would  have,  than  that  he 
can  thoroughly  believe  it,  or  be  persuaded  of  it.  For  none  deny 
there  is  a  God,  but  those  for  whom  it  maketh  that  there  were  no 
God.  It  appeareth  in  nothing  more,  that  atheism  is  rather  in  the 
lip  than  in  the  heart  of  man,  than  by  this,  that  atheists  will  ever 
be  talking  of  that  their  opinion,  as  if  they  fainted  in  it  within 
themselves,  and  would  be  glad  to  be  strengthened  by  the  consent 
of  others;  nay  more,  you  shall  have  atheists  strive  to  get  disciples, 
as  it  fareth  with  other  sects;  and,  which  is  most  of  all,  you  shall 
have  of  them  that  will  suffer  for  atheism,  and  not  recant;  whereas 
if  they  did  truly  think  that  there  were  no  such  thing  as  God,  why 
should  they  trouble  themselves  ?  Epicurus  is  charged,  that  he  did 
but  dissemble,  for  his  credit's  sake,  when  he  affirmed  there  were 
blessed  natures,  but  such  as  enjoyed  themselves  without  having 
respect  to  the  government  of  the  world.  Wherein  they  say  he 
did  temporize,  though  in  secret  he  thought  there  was  no  God. 
But  certainly  he  is  traduced;  for  his  words  are  noble  and  divine: 
KNon  deos  vulgi  negare  profanum;  sed  valgi  opiniones  diis  applicare 
pro/anum.n     Plato    could   have  said  no  more.     And  although  he 


354  FRANCIS   BACON 

had  the  confidence  to  deny  the  administration,  he  had  not  the 
power  to  deny  the  nature.  The  Indians  of  the  West  have  names 
for  their  particular  gods,  though  they  have  no  name  for  God;  as 
if  the  heathen  should  have  had  the  names  Jupiter,  Apollo,  Mars, 
etc.,  but  not  the  word  Deus:  which  shows,  that  even  those  bar- 
barous people  have  the  notion,  though  they  have  not  the  latitude 
and  extent  of  it.  So  that  against  atheists  the  very  savages  take 
part  with  the  very  subtlest  philosophers.  The  contemplative 
atheist  is  rare;  a  Diagoras,  a  Bion,  a  Lucian  perhaps,  and  some 
others;  and  yet  they  seem  to  be  more  than  they  are;  for  that  all 
that  impugn  a  received  religion,  or  superstition,  are  by  the  ad- 
verse part  branded  with  the  name  of  atheists.  But  the  great 
atheists  indeed  are  hypocrites,  which  are  ever  handling  holy 
things,  but  without  feeling;  so  as  they  must  needs  be  cauterized 
in  the  end.  The  causes  of  atheism  are  divisions  in  religion,  if 
they  be  many;  for  any  one  main  division  addeth  zeal  to  both 
sides,  but  many  divisions  introduce  atheism.  Another  is,  scandal 
of  priests;  when  it  is  come  to  that  which  Saint  Bernard  saith, 
*  non  est  jam  dicere,  ut  populus,  sic  sacerdos:  quia  nee  sic  populus, 
ut  saccrdos."  A  third  is,  custom  of  profane  scoffing  in  holy 
matters,  which  doth  by  little  and  little  deface  the  reverence  of 
religion.  And  lastly,  learned  times,  especially  with  peace  and 
prosperity:  for  troubles  and  adversities  do  more  bow  men's  minds 
to  religion.  They  that  deny  a  God  destroy  man's  nobility,  for 
certainly  man  is  of  kin  to  the  beasts  by  his  body;  and  if  he  be 
not  of  kin  to  God  by  his  spirit,  he  is  a  base  and  ignoble  crea- 
ture. It  destroys  likewise  magnanimity,  and  the  raising  of  hu- 
man nature :  for  take  an  example  of  a  dog,  and  mark  what  a 
generosity  and  courage  he  will  put  on,  when  he  finds  himself 
maintained  by  a  man;  who  to  him  is  instead  of  a  God,  or  melior 
natura:  which  courage  is  manifestly  such,  as  that  creature,  with- 
out that  confidence  of  a  better  nature  than  his  own,  could  never 
attain.  So  man,  when  he  resteth  and  assureth  himself  upon 
divine  protection  and  favor,  gathereth  a  force  and  faith,  which 
human  nature  in  itself  could  not  obtain:  therefore  as  atheism  is 
in  all  respects  hateful,  so  in  this,  that  it  depriveth  human  nature 
of  the  means  to  exalt  itself  above  human  frailty.  As  it  is  in 
particular  persons,  so  it  is  in  nations:  never  was  there  such  a 
state  for  magnanimity  as  Rome;  of  this  state  hear  what  Cicero 
saith:  (<  Quam  voluntas,  licet,  patres  conscript  i,  nos  amemus,  tamen 
nee  numero   Hispanos,  nee   robore   Gallos,  nee  callidate  Pcenos,   nee 


FRANCIS   BACON  ■     - 

artibus  Grcecos,  nee  denique  hoc  ipso  hujus  gentis  et  terra?  domes- 
tico  nativoque  sensu  Italos  ipsos  et  Latinos;  sed  pietate,  ac  reli- 
giotie,  atque  hac  una  sapientia,  quod  deorum  immortahum  nuvnne 
omnia  regi  gubernarique  pcrspeximus,  omnes  gentes  nationesque  su- 
per avimus.  B 

Complete.     From  "Essays  Civil  and  Moral. ° 


OF    SUPERSTITION 

It  were  better  to  have  no  opinion  of  God  at  all  than  such  an 
opinion  as  is  unworthy  of  him,  for  the  one  is  unbelief,  the 
other  is  contumely;  and  certainly  superstition  is  the  reproach 
of  the  Deity.  Plutarch  saith  well  to  that  purpose :  (<  Surely, rt 
saith  he,  (<  I  had  rather  a  great  deal  men  should  say  there  was 
no  such  man  at  all  as  Plutarch,  than  that  they  should  say  that 
there  was  one  Plutarch  that  would  eat  his  children  as  soon  as 
they  were  born;  as  the  poets  speak  of  Saturn. B  And  as  the  con- 
tumely is  greater  towards  God,  so  the  danger  is  greater  towards 
men.  Atheism  leaves  a  man  to  sense,  to  philosophy,  to  natural 
piety,  to  laws,  to  reputation;  all  which  may  be  guides  to  an  out- 
ward moral  virtue,  though  religion  were  not:  but  superstition 
dismounts  all  these,  and  erecteth  an  absolute  monarchy  in  the 
minds  of  men.  Therefore  atheism  did  never  perturb  states;  for 
it  makes  men  war}'  of  themselves,  as  looking  no  further:  and  we 
see  the  times  inclined  to  atheism,  as  the  time  of  Augustus 
Caesar,  were  civil  times.  But  superstition  hath  been  the  confu- 
sion of  many  states;  and  bringeth  in  a  new  primum  mobile,  that 
ravisheth  all  the  spheres  of  government.  The  master  of  super- 
stition is  the  people;  and  in  all  superstition  wise  men  follow 
fools,  and  arguments  are  fitted  to  practice  in  a  reversed  order. 
It  was  gravely  said  by  some  of  the  prelates  in  the  Council  of 
Trent,  where  the  doctrine  of  the  Schoolmen  bare  great  sway, 
that  the  schoolmen  were  like  astronomers,  which  did  feign  eccen- 
trics and  epicycles,  and  such  engines  of  orbs,  to  save  the  phe- 
nomena, though  they  knew  there  were  no  such  things;  and  in 
like  manner,  that  the  Schoolmen  had  framed  a  number  of  subtile 
and  intricate  axioms  and  theorems,  to  save  the  practice  of  the 
Church.  The  causes  of  superstition  are:  pleasing  and  sensual 
rites  and  ceremonies;  excess  of  outward  and  pharisaical  holiness; 
over-great    reverence    of    traditions,  which    cannot    but    load    the 


336  FRANCIS   BACON 

Church;  the  stratagems  of  prelates  for  their  own  ambition  and 
lucre;  the  favoring  too  much  of  good  intentions,  which  openeth 
the  gate  to  conceits  and  novelties;  the  taking  an  aim  at  divine 
matters  by  human,  which  cannot  but  breed  mixture  of  imagina- 
tions; and,  lastly,  barbarous  times,  especially  joined  with  calami- 
ties and  disasters.  Superstition  without  a  veil  is  a  deformed 
thing;  for  as  it  addeth  deformity  to  an  ape  to  be  so  like  a  man, 
so  the  similitude  of  superstition  to  religion  makes  it  the  more  de- 
formed. And  as  wholesome  meat  corrupteth  to  little  worms,  so 
good  forms  and  orders  corrupt  into  a  number  of  petty  observ- 
ances. There  is  a  superstition  in  avoiding  superstition;  when 
men  think  to  do  best,  if  they  go  furthest  from  the  superstition 
formerly  received:  therefore  care  would  be  had,  that,  as  it  fareth 
in  ill  purgings,  the  good  be  not  taken  away  with  the  bad,  which 
commonly  is  done  when  the  people  is  the  reformer. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


OF   NEGOTIATING 

It  is  generally  better  to  deal  by  speech  than  by  letter;  and  by 
the  mediation  of  a  third  than  by  a  man's  self.  Letters  are 
good,  when  a  man  would  draw  an  answer  by  letter  back 
again;  or  when  it  may  serve  for  a  man's  justification,  afterwards 
to  produce  his  own  letter;  or  where  it  may  be  danger  to  be  in- 
terrupted, or  heard  by  pieces.  To  deal  in  person  is  good,  when 
a  man's  face  breedeth  regard,  as  commonly  with  inferiors;  or  in 
tender  cases,  where  a  man's  eye  upon  the  countenance  of  him 
with  whom  he  speaketh  may  give  him  a  direction  how  far  to 
go;  and  generally  where  a  man  will  reserve  to  himself  liberty, 
either  to  disavow  or  to  expound.  In  choice  of  instruments,  it 
is  better  to  choose  men  of  a  plainer  sort,  that  are  like  to  do  that 
that  is  committed  to  them,  and  to  report  back  again  faithfully 
the  success,  than  those  that  are  cunning  to  contrive  out  of  other 
men's  business  somewhat  to  grace  themselves,  and  will  help  the 
matter  in  report,  for  satisfaction  sake.  Use  also  such  persons  as 
affect  the  business  wherein  they  are  employed,  for  that  quick- 
eneth  much;  and  such  as  are  fit  for  the  matter;  as  bold  men  for 
expostulation,  fair-spoken  men  for  persuasion,  crafty  men  for  in- 
quiry and  observation,  froward  and  absurd  men  for  business  that 
doth  not  well  bear  out  itself.     Use  also  such  as  have  been  lucky, 


FRANCIS    BACON  337 

and  prevailed  before  in  things  wherein  you  have  employed  them; 
for  that  breeds  confidence,  and  they  will  strive  to  maintain  their 
prescription.  It  is  better  to  sound  a  person  with  whom  one 
deals,  afar  off,  than  to  fall  upon  the  point  at  first;  except  you 
mean  to  surprise  him  by  some  short  question.  It  is  better  deal- 
ing with  men  in  appetite  than  with  those  that  are  where  they 
would  be.  If  a  man  deal  with  another  upon  conditions,  the  start 
or  first  performance  is  all;  which  a  man  cannot  reasonably  de- 
mand, except  either  the  nature  of  the  thing  be  such  which  must 
go  before,  or  else  a  man  can  persuade  the  other  party  that  he 
shall  still  need  him  in  some  other  thing,  or  else  that  he  be 
counted  the  honester  man.  All  practice  is  to  discover,  or  to 
work.  Men  discover  themselves  in  trust,  in  passion,  at  unawares, 
and  of  necessity,  when  they  would  have  somewhat  done,  and 
cannot  find  an  apt  pretext.  If  you  would  work  any  man,  you 
must  either  know  his  nature  and  fashions,  and  so  lead  him;  or 
his  ends,  and  so  persuade  him;  or  his  weakness  and  disadvan- 
tages, and  so  awe  him;  or  those  that  have  interest  in  him,  and 
so  govern  him.  In  dealing  with  cunning  persons,  we  must  ever 
consider  their  ends  to  interpret  their  speeches;  and  it  is  good  to 
say  little  to  them,  and  that  which  they  least  look  for.  In  all 
negotiations  of  difficulty,  a  man  may  not  look  to  sow  and  reap 
at  once;  but  must  prepare  business,  and  so  ripen  it  by  degrees. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral.* 


OF   STUDIES 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability.  Their 
chief  use  for  delight  is  in  privateness  and  retiring;  for  or- 
nament is  in  discourse;  and  for  ability  is  in  the  judgment 
and  disposition  of  business.  For  expert  men  can  execute,  and 
perhaps  judge  of  particulars,  one  by  one;  but  the  general  coun- 
sels, and  the  plots,  and  marshaling  of  affairs  come  best  from 
those  that  are  learned.  To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies  is 
sloth;  to  use  them  too  much  for  ornament  is  affectation;  to  make 
judgment  only  by  their  rules  is  the  humor  of  a  scholar.  They 
perfect  nature  and  are  perfected  by  experience:  for  natural  abil- 
ities are  like  natural  plants  that  need  pruning  by  study;  and 
studies  themselves  do  give  forth  directions  too  much  at  large, 
except  they  be  bounded  in  by  experience.  Crafty  men  contemn 
i — 22 


33S  FRANCIS   BACON 

studies;  simple  men  admire  them;  and  wise  men  use  them:  for 
thev  teach  not  their  own  use :  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without 
them,  and  above  them,  won  by  observation.  Read  not  to  contra- 
dict and  confute;  nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted;  nor  to 
find  talk  and  discourse;  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books 
are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be 
chewed  and  digested.  That  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in 
parts;  others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously;  and  some  few  to  be 
read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention.  Some  books  also 
may  be  read  by  deputy  and  extracts  made  of  them  by  others, 
but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less  important  arguments,  and  the 
meaner  sort  of  books;  else  distilled  books  are  like  common  dis- 
tilled waters,  flashy  things.  Reading  maketh  a  full  man;  confer- 
ence a  ready  man;  and  writing  an  exact  man.  And  therefore  if 
a  man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a  great  memory;  if  he  con- 
fer little,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit;  and  if  he  read  little, 
he  had  need  have  much  cunning  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth 
not.  Histories  make  men  wise;  poets,  witty;  the  mathematics, 
subtile;  natural  philosophy,  deep;  moral,  grave;  logic  and  rhetoric, 
able  to  contend:  (<  Abeunt  studia  in  mores*  Nay,  there  is  no  stond 
nor  impediment  in  the  wit  but  may  be  wrought  out  by  fit  studies ; 
like  as  diseases  of  the  body  may  have  appropriate  exercises: 
bowling  is  good  for  the  stone  and  reins;  shooting,  for  the  lungs 
and  breast;  gentle  walking,  for  the  stomach;  riding,  for  the  head; 
and  the  like.  So  if  a  man's  wit  be  wandering,  let  him  study  the 
mathematics;  for  in  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called  away 
never  so  little,  he  must  begin  again.  If  his  wit  be  not  apt  to  dis- 
tinguish or  find  differences,  let  him  study  the  Schoolmen, —  for 
they  are  cymini  sector es ;  if  he  be  not  apt  to  beat  over  matters, 
and  to  call  up  one  thing  to  prove  and  illustrate  another,  let  him 
study  the  lawyers'  cases:  so  every  defect  of  the  mind  may  have 
a  special  receipt. 

Complete.     From  "Essays  Civil  and  Moral. w 


OF   PRAISE 

Praise  is  the  reflection  of  virtue ;  but  it  is  as  the  glass  or  body 
which  giveth  the  reflection.    If  it  be  from  the  common  people 
it  is  commonlv  false  and  naught ;  and  rather  followeth  vain 
persons  than  virtuous,  for  the  common  people  understand  not  many 


FRANCIS   BACON  339 

excellent  virtues.  The  lowest  virtues  draw  praise  from  them ;  the 
middle  virtues  work  in  them  astonishment  or  admiration ;  but  of 
the  highest  virtues  they  have  no  sense  or  perceiving  at  all:  but 
shows,  and  species  virtutibus  similes,  serve  best  with  them.  Certainly 
fame  is  like  a  river,  that  beareth  up  things  light  and  swoln,  and 
drowns  things  weighty  and  solid;  but  if  persons  of  quality  and 
judgment  concur,  then  it  is,  as  the  Scripture  saith,  (<  Nomen  bonum 
instar  ungaenti  fragrantis.  *  It  filleth  all  round  about  and  will 
not  easily  away,  for  the  odors  of  ointments  are  more  durable 
than  those  of  flowers.  There  be  so  many  false  points  of  praise, 
that  a  man  may  justly  hold  it  a  suspect.  Some  praises  proceed 
merely  of  flattery;  and  if  he  be  an  ordinary  flatterer,  he  will  have 
certain  common  attributes,  which  may  serve  every  man;  if  he  be 
a  cunning  flatterer,  he  will  follow  the  arch  flatterer,  which  is  a 
man's  self;  and  wherein  a  man  thinketh  best  of  himself,  therein 
the  flatterer  will  uphold  him  most:  but  if  he  be  an  impudent 
flatterer,  look,  wherein  a  man  is  conscious  to  himself  that  he  is 
most  defective,  and  is  most  out  of  countenance  in  himself,  that 
will  the  flatterer  entitle  him  to  perforce,  spreta  conscientia.  Some 
praises  come  of  good  wishes  and  respects,  which  is  a  form  due 
in  civility  to  kings  and  great  persons;  laudando  prcecipere;  when 
by  telling  men  what  they  are,  they  represent  to  them  what  they 
should  be.  Some  men  are  praised  maliciously  to  their  hurt,  thereby 
to  stir  envy  and  jealousy  towards  them:  pessimum  genus  inimi- 
corum  laudantium;  insomuch  as  it  was  a  proverb  amongst  the 
Grecians,  that  he  that  was  praised  to  his  hurt  should  have  a  push 
rise  upon  his  nose;  as  we  say,  that  a  blister  will  rise  upon  one's 
tongue  that  tells  a  lie.  Certainly  moderate  praise,  used  with  op- 
portunity, and  not  vulgar,  is  that  which  doth  the  good.  Solomon 
saith,  <(  He  that  praiseth  his  friend  aloud,  rising  early,  it  shall  be 
to  him  no  better  than  a  curse. })  Too  much  magnifying  of  man 
or  matter  doth  irritate  contradiction  and  procure  envy  and  scorn. 
To  praise  man's  self  cannot  be  decent,  except  it  be  in  rare  cases: 
but  to  praise  a  man's  office  or  profession,  he  may  do  it  with  good 
grace  and  with  a  kind  of  magnanimity.  The  cardinals  of  Rome, 
which  are  theologues,  and  friars,  and  schoolmen,  have  a  phrase  of 
notable  contempt  and  scorn  towards  civil  business;  for  they  call 
all  temporal  business,  of  wars,  embassages,  judicature,  and  other 
employments,  sbirrerie,  which  is  undersheriffries,  as  if  they  were 
but  matters  for  undersheriffs  and  catchpolls;  though  many  times 
those  undersheriffries  do  more  good  than  their  high  speculations. 


34o 


FRANCIS   BACON 


Saint  Paul,  when  he  boasts  of  himself,  he   doth  oft  interlace,    (<  I 

speak  like  a  fool";  but  speaking  of  his  calling,  he  saith  a  magnifi- 

cabo  apostolatum  meum* 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


OF   VAINGLORY 

It  was  prettily  devised  of  ^sop:    The  fly  sat  upon  the  axletree 
of  the  chariot  wheel,  and  said,    What  a  dust  do  I  raise!      So 

are  there  some  vain  persons,  that  whatsoever  goeth  alone,  or 
moveth  upon  greater  means,  if  they  have  never  so  little  hand  in  it, 
they  think  it  is  they  that  carry  it.  They  that  are  glorious  must 
needs  be  factious;  for  all  bravery  stands  upon  comparisons.  They 
must  needs  be  violent  to  make  good  their  own  vaunts:  neither 
can  they  be  secret,  and  therefore  not  effectual;  but  according  to 
the  French  proverb,  <(  Beancoup  de  bruit,  pen  de  fruit*  much  bruit, 
little  fruit.  Yet  certainly  there  is  use  of  this  quality  in  civil  af- 
fairs: where  there  is  an  opinion,  and  fame  to  be  created,  either 
of  virtue  or  greatness,  these  men  are  good  trumpeters.  Again, 
as  Titus  Livius  noteth,  in  the  case  of  Antiochus  and  the  Mto- 
lians,  there  are  sometimes  great  effects  of  cross-lies;  as  if  a  man 
that  negotiates  between  two  princes,  to  draw  them  to  join  in  a 
war  against  the  third,  doth  extol  the  forces  of  either  of  them 
above  measure,  the  one  to  the  other:  and  sometimes  he  that  deals 
between  man  and  man  raiseth  his  own  credit  with  both,  by  pre- 
tending greater  interest  than  he  hath  in  either.  And  in  these 
and  the  like  kinds,  it  often  falls  out,  that  somewhat  is  produced 
of  nothing;  for  lies  are  sufficient  to  breed  opinion,  and  opinion 
brings  on  substance. 

In  military  commanders  and  soldiers,  vainglory  is  an  essen- 
tial point;  for  as  iron  sharpens  iron,  so  by  glory  one  courage 
sharpeneth  another:  in  cases  of  great  enterprise,  upon  charge 
and  adventure,  a  composition  of  glorious  natures  doth  put  life 
into  business;  and  those  that  are  of  solid  and  sober  natures  have 
more  of  the  ballast  than  of  the  sail.  In  fame  of  learning,  the 
flight  will  be  slow,  without  some  feathers  of  ostentation :  <(  Qui 
de  contemnenda  gloria  libros  scribunt,  nomen  suum  inscribunt ." 
Socrates,  Aristotle,  Galen,  were  men  full  of  ostentation.  Certainly 
vainglory  helpeth  to  perpetuate  a  man's  memory;  and  virtue  was 
never  so  beholden  to  human  nature,  as  it  received  its  due  at  the 


FRANCIS    BACON  341 

second-hand.  Neither  had  the  fame  of  Cicero,  Seneca,  Plinius 
Secundus,  borne  her  age  so  well,  if  it  had  not  been  joined  with 
some  vanity  in  themselves:  like  unto  varnish  that  makes  ceilings 
not  only  shine,  but  last.  But  all  this  while,  when  I  speak  of 
vainglory  I  mean  not  ot  that  property  that  Tacitus  doth  attrib- 
ute to  Mucianus,  <(  omnium,  qnce  dixerat,  feceratque  arte  quadam 
ostcntator*:  for  that  proceeds  not  of  vanity,  but  of  natural  mag- 
nanimity and  discretion;  and  in  some  persons  is  not  only  comely, 
but  gracious.  For  excusations,  cessions,  modesty  itself  well  gov- 
erned, are  but  arts  of  ostentation.  And  amongst  those  arts,  there 
is  none  better  than  that  which  Plinius  Secundus  speaketh  of; 
which  is  to  be  liberal  of  praise  and  commendation  to  others,  in 
that  wherein  a  man's  self  hath  any  perfection.  For,  saith  Pliny, 
very  wittily,  (<in  commending  another  you  do  yourself  right;  for 
he  that  you  commend  is  either  superior  to  you  in  that  you  com- 
mend, or  inferior.  If  he  be  inferior,  if  he  be  to  be  commended, 
you  much  more.  If  he  be  superior,  if  he  be  not  to  be  com- 
mended, you  much  less.w  Glorious  men  are  the  scorn  of  wise 
men,  the  admiration  of  fools,  the  idols  of  parasites,  and  slaves  of 
their  own  vaunts. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


OF   HONOR   AND   REPUTATION 

The  winning  of  honor  is  but  the  revealing  of  a  man's  virtue 
and  worth  without  disadvantage.  For  some  in  their  ac- 
tions do  woo  and  affect  honor  and  reputation;  which  sort 
of  men  are  commonly  much  talked  of,  but  inwardly  little  ad- 
mired. And  some,  contrariwise,  darken  their  virtue  in  the  show 
of  it;  so  as  they  be  undervalued  in  opinion.  If  a  man  perform 
that  which  hath  not  been  attempted  before,  or  attempted  and 
given  over,  or  hath  been  achieved,  but  not  with  so  good  circum- 
stance, he  shall  purchase  more  honor  than  by  effecting  a  matter 
of  greater  difficulty  or  virtue,  wherein  he  is  but  a  follower.  If 
a  man  so  temper  his  actions,  as  in  some  one  of  them  he  doth 
content  every  faction  or  combination  of  people,  the  music  will  be 
the  fuller.  A  man  is  an  ill  husband  of  his  honor  that  entereth 
into  any  action,  the  failing  wherein  may  disgrace  him  more  than 
the  carrying  of  it  through  can  honor  him.  Honor  that  is  gained 
and   broken   upon   another  hath  the  quickest   reflection,  like  dia- 


342  FRANCIS    BACON 

monds  cut  with  fascets.  And  therefore  let  a  man  contend  to  excel 
any  competitors  of  his  in  honor,  in  outshooting  them,  if  he  can, 
in  their  own  bow.  Discreet  followers  and  servants  help  much  to 
reputation :  <(  omnis  fama  a  domesticis  cvianat. w  Envy,  which  is 
the  canker  of  honor,  is  best  extinguished  by  declaring  a  man's 
self  in  his  ends,  rather  to  seek  merit  than  fame;  and  by  attrib- 
uting a  man's  successes  rather  to  Divine  Providence  and  felicity, 
than  to  his  own  virtue  or  policy.  The  true  marshaling  of  the 
degrees  of  sovereign  honor  are  these.  In  the  first  place  are 
Conditores  Imperiorum,  founders  of  states  and  commonwealths: 
such  as  were  Romulus,  Cyrus,  Caesar,  Ottoman,  Ismael.  In  the 
second  place  are  legislators,  lawgivers,  which  are  also  called  sec- 
ond founders,  or  Perpetui  Principes,  because  they  govern  by  their 
ordinances,  after  they  are  gone:  such  were  Lycurgus,  Solon,  Jus- 
tinian, Edgar,  Alphonsus  of  Castile  the  wise,  that  made  the  Siete 
partidas.  In  the  third  place  are  Liberatores,  or  Salvatores,  such 
as  compound  the  long  miseries  of  civil  wars,  or  deliver  their 
countries  from  servitude  of  strangers  or  tyrants:  as  Augustus 
Caesar,  Vespasianus,  Aurelianus,  Theodoricus,  King  Henry  VII. 
of  England,  King  Henry  IV.  of  France.  In  the  fourth  place  are 
Propagatores,  or  Propugnatores  Imperii,  such  as  in  honorable 
wars  enlarge  their  territories,  or  make  noble  defense  against  in- 
vaders. And  in  the  last  place  are  Patres  Patriae,  which  reign 
justly  and  make  the  times  good  wherein  they  live.  Both  which 
last  kinds  need  no  examples,  they  are  in  such  number.  De- 
grees of  honor  in  subjects  are:  first,  Participes  Curarum,  those 
upon  whom  princes  do  discharge  the  greatest  weight  of  their 
affairs;  their  right  hands,  as  we  call  them.  The  next  are  Duces 
Belli,  great  leaders;  such  as  are  prince's  lieutenants,  and  do  them 
notable  services  in  the  wars.  The  third  are  Gratiosi,  favorites, 
such  as  exceed  not  this  scantling,  to  be  solace  to  the  sovereign, 
and  harmless  to  the  people.  And  the  fourth,  Negotiis  Pares, 
such  as  have  great  places  under  princes,  and  execute  their  places 
with  sufficiency.  There  is  an  honor  likewise,  which  may  be 
ranked  amongst  the  greatest,  which  happeneth  rarely:  that  is,  of 
such  as  sacrifice  themselves  to  death  or  danger  for  the  good  of 
their  country;   as  was  M.  Regulus  and  the  two  Decii. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


FRANCIS    BACON  343 


OF    ANGER 


To  seek  to  extinguish  anger  utterly  is  but  a  bravery  of  Stoics. 
We  have  better  oracles:  <(  Be  angry,  but  sin  not.  Let  not 
the  sun  go  down  upon  your  anger. w  Anger  must  be  lim- 
ited and  confined,  both  in  race  and  in  time.  We  will  first  speak 
how  the  natural  inclination  and  habit  to  be  angry  may  be 
attempered  and  calmed.  Secondly,  how  the  particular  motions 
of  anger  may  be  repressed,  or  at  least  refrained  from  doing  mis- 
chief. Thirdly,  how  to  raise  anger,  or  appease  anger,  in  another. 
For  the  first,  there  is  no  other  way  but  to  meditate  and 
ruminate  well  upon  the  effects  of  anger,  how  it  troubles  man's 
life.  And  the  best  time  to  do  this  is  to  look  back  upon  anger 
when  the  fit  is  thoroughly  over.  Seneca  saith  well  that  "Anger 
is  like  ruin,  which  breaks  itself  upon  that  it  falls. w  The  Scripture 
exhorteth  us  (<to  possess  our  souls  in  patience. ®  Whosoever  is 
out  of  patience  is  out  of  possession  of  his  soul.  Men  must  not 
turn  bees : — 

(< Animasque  in  vulnere  ponnnt.y> 


Anger  is  certainly  a  kind  of  baseness,  as  it  appears  well  in 
the  weakness  of  those  subjects  in  whom  it  reigns:  children, 
women,  old  folks,  sick  folks.  Only  men  must  beware  that  they 
carry  their  anger  rather  with  scorn  than  with  fear,  so  they  may 
seem  rather  to  be  above  the  injury  than  below  it.  Which  is  a 
thing  easily  done,  if  a  man  will  give  law  to  himself  in  it. 

For  the  second  point,  the  causes  and  motives  of  anger  are 
chiefly  three.  First,  to  be  too  sensible  of  hurt.  For  no  man  is 
angry  that  feels  not  himself  hurt;  and  therefore  tender  and  deli- 
cate persons  must  needs  be  oft  angry,  they  have  so  many  things 
to  trouble  them,  which  more  robust  natures  have  little  sense  of. 
The  next  is  the  apprehension  and  construction  of  the  injury 
offered  to  be,  in  the  circumstances  thereof,  full  of  contempt.  For 
contempt  is  that  which  putteth  an  edge  upon  anger,  as  much  or 
more  than  the  hurt  itself.  And  therefore,  when  men  are  ingen- 
ious in  picking  out  circumstances  of  contempt,  they  do  kindle 
their  anger  much.  Lastly,  opinion  of  the  touch  of  a  man's  repu- 
tation doth  multiply  and  sharpen  anger.  Wherein  the  remedy  is 
that  a  man  should  have,  as  Consalvo  was  wont  to  say,  "-telam 
honoris  crassiorem. w     But  in  all  refrainings  of  anger  it  is  the  best 


344  FRANCIS   BACON 

remedy  to  win  time,  and  to  make  a  man's  self  believe  that  the 
opportunity  of  his  revenge  is  not  yet  come,  but  that  he  foresees 
a  time  for  it,  and  so  to  still  himself  in  the  meantime  and  re- 
serve it. 

To  contain  anger  from  mischief,  though  it  take  hold  of  a  man, 
there  be  two  things  whereof  you  must  have  special  caution.  The 
one,  of  extreme  bitterness  of  words,  especially  if  they  be  aculeate 
and  proper;  for  commnnia  malcdicta  are  nothing  so  much;  and 
again,  that  in  anger  a  man  reveal  no  secrets,  for  that  makes  them 
not  fit  for  society.  The  other,  that  you  do  not  peremptorily 
break  off,  in  any  business,  in  a  fit  of  anger:  but  howsoever  you 
show  bitterness,  do  not  act  anything  that  is  not  revocable. 

For  raising  and  appeasing  anger  in  another,  it  is  done  chiefly 
by  choosing  of  times:  when  men  are  frowardest  and  worst  dis- 
posed, to  incense  them;  again,  by  gathering,  as  was  touched 
before,  all  that  you  can  find  out  to  aggravate  the  contempt:  and 
the  two  remedies  are  by  the  contraries.  The  former,  to  take 
good  times  when  first  to  relate  to  a  man  an  angry  business;  for 
the  first  impression  is  much.  And  the  other  is  to  sever,  as  much 
as  may  be,  the  construction  of  the  injury,  from  the  point  of  con- 
tempt, imputing  it  to  misunderstanding,  fear,  passion,  or  what 
you  will. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. w 


OF   RICHES 

I  cannot  call  riches  better  than  the  baggage  of  virtue.  The 
Roman  word  is  better, —  impedimenta.  For  as  the  baggage  is 
to  an  army,  so  are  riches  to  virtue.  It  cannot  be  spared, 
nor  left  behind,  but  it  hindereth  the  march;  yea,  and  the  care  of 
it  sometimes  loseth  or  disturbeth  the  victory.  Of  great  riches 
there  is  no  real  use,  except  it  be  in  the  distribution;  the  rest  is 
but  conceit.  So  saith  Solomon,  (<  Where  much  is,  there  are  many 
to  consume  it;  and  what  hath  the  owner,  but  the  sight  of  it 
with  his  eyes?"  The  personal  fruition  in  any  man  cannot  reach 
to  feel  great  riches;  there  is  a  custody  of  them;  or  a  power  of 
dole  and  donative  of  them;  or  a  fame  of  them;  but  no  solid  use 
to  the  owner.  Do  you  not  see  what  feigned  prices  are  set  upon 
little  stones  and  rareties  ?  And  what  works  of  ostentation  are 
undertaken,  because  there    might    seem  to  be  some  use  of   great 


FRANCIS    BACON  345 

riches  ?  But  then  you  will  say,  they  may  be  of  use,  to  buy  men 
out  of  dangers  or  troubles.  As  Solomon  saith,  (<  Riches  are  as  a 
stronghold  in  the  imagination  of  the  rich  man."  But  this  is 
excellently  expressed,  that  it  is  in  imagination,  and  not  always 
in  fact.  For  certainly  great  riches  have  sold  more  men  than 
they  have  bought  out.  Seek  not  proud  riches,  but  such  as  thou 
mayest  get  justly,  use  soberly,  distribute  cheerfully,  and  leave 
contentedly.  Yet  have  no  abstract  nor  friarly  contempt  of  them: 
but  distinguish,  as  Cicero  saith  well  of  Rabirius  Posthumus:  <(  in 
studio  rci  amplificandee  apparcbat,  non  avaritiee  preedam,  scd  in- 
strumentum  bonitati  queer  i*  Hearken  also  to  Solomon,  and  be- 
ware of  hasty  gathering  of  riches :  w  Qui  festinat  ad  divitias,  non 
erit  insons.y>  The  poets  feign  that  when  Plutus,  which  is  riches, 
is  sent  from  Jupiter,  he  limps,  and  goes  slowly;  but  when  he  is 
sent  from  Pluto,  he  runs,  and  is  swift  of  foot:  meaning,  that 
riches  gotten  by  good  means  and  just  labor,  pace  slowly;  but 
when  they  come  by  the  death  of  others,  as  by  the  course  of  in- 
heritance, testaments,  and  the  like,  they  come  tumbling  upon  a 
man.  But  it  might  be  applied  likewise  to  Pluto,  taking  him  for 
the  devil.  For  when  riches  come  from  the  devil,  as  by  fraud, 
and  oppression,  and  unjust  means,  they  come  upon  speed.  The 
ways  to  enrich  are  many,  and  most  of  them  foul.  Parsimony  is 
one  of  the  best,  and  yet  is  not  innocent;  for  it  withholdeth  men 
from  works  of  liberality  and  charity.  The  improvement  of  the 
ground  is  the  most  natural  obtaining  of  riches;  for  it  is  our 
great  mother's  blessing,  the  earth's;  but  it  is  slow.  And  yet, 
where  men  of  great  wealth  do  stoop  to  husbandry,  it  multiplieth 
riches  exceedingly.  I  knew  a  nobleman  in  England  that  had 
the  greatest  audits  of  any  man  in  my  time:  a  great  grazier,  a 
great  sheepmaster,  a  great  timberman,  a  great  collier,  a  great 
cornmaster,  a  great  leadman, —  and  so  of  iron,  and  a  number  of 
the  like  points  of  husbandry;  so  as  the  earth  seemed  a  sea  to 
him,  in  respect  of  the  perpetual  importation.  It  was  truly  ob- 
served by  one,  that  himself  came  very  hardly  to  a  little  riches, 
and  very  easily  to  great  riches.  For  when  a  man's  stock  is  come 
to  that,  that  he  can  expect  the  prime  of  markets,  and  overcome 
those  bargains,  which  for  their  greatness  are  few  men's  money, 
and  be  partner  in  the  industries  of  young  men,  he  cannot  but 
increase  mainly.  The  gains  of  ordinary  trades  and  vocations  are 
honest  and  furthered  by  two  things,  chiefly,  by  diligence,  and  by 
a  good  name  for  good  and  fair  dealing.     But  the  gains  of  bar- 


346  FRANCIS   BACON 

gains  are  of  a  more  doubtful  nature,  when  men  should  wait 
upon  other's  necessity;  broke  by  servants  and  instruments  to 
draw  them  on;  put  off  others  cunningly  that  would  be  better 
chapmen,  and  the  like  practices,  which  are  crafty  and  naught. 
As  for  the  chopping  of  bargains,  when  a  man  buys,  not  to  hold, 
but  to  sell  over  again,  that  commonly  grindeth  double,  both 
upon  the  seller  and  upon  the  buyer.  Sharings  do  greatly  enrich, 
if  the  hands  be  well  chosen  that  are  trusted.  Usury  is  the  cer- 
tainest  means  of  gain,  though  one  of  the  worst,  as  that  whereby 
a  man  doth  eat  his  bread  (<  in  sudori  vultus  alicni w  /  and  besides, 
doth  plough  upon  Sundays.  But  yet  certain  though  it  be,  it 
hath  flows;  for  that  the  scriveners  and  brokers  do  value  unsound 
men,  to  serve  their  own  turn.  The  fortune  in  being  the  first  in 
an  invention,  or  in  a  privilege,  doth  cause  sometimes  a  wonder- 
ful overgrowth  in  riches;  as  it  was  with  the  first  sugarman  in 
the  Canaries.  Therefore,  if  a  man  can  play  the  true  logician,  to 
have  as  well  judgment  as  invention,  he  may  do  great  matters, 
especially  if  the  times  be  fit.  He  that  resteth  upon  gains  cer- 
tain shall  hardly  grow  to  great  riches.  And  he  that  puts  all 
upon  adventures  doth  oftentimes  break  and  come  to  poverty;  it 
is  good  therefore  to  guard  adventures  with  certainties  that  may 
escape  losses.  Monopolies,  and  coemption  of  wares  for  resale, 
where  they  are  not  restrained,  are  great  means  to  enrich,  espe- 
cially if  the  party  have  intelligence  what  things  are  like  to  come 
into  request,  and  to  store  himself  beforehand.  Riches  gotten  by 
service,  though  it  be  of  the  best  rise,  yet  when  they  are  gotten 
by  flattery,  feeding  humors,  and  other  servile  conditions,  they 
may  be  placed  among  the  worst.  As  for  fishing  for  testaments 
and  executorships,  as  Tacitus  saith  of  Seneca,  <(  Testamenta  et  or- 
bos  tanquam  indagine  capi^  it  is  yet  worse;  by  how  much  men 
submit  themselves  to  meaner  persons  than  in  service.  Believe 
not  much  them  that  seem  to  despise  riches;  for  they  despise 
them  that  despair  of  them,  and  none  worse  when  they  come  to 
them.  Be  not  penny-wise;  riches  have  wings,  and  sometimes 
they  fly  away  of  themselves,  sometimes  they  must  be  set  flying 
to  bring  in  more.  Men  leave  their  riches  either  to  their  kindred 
or  to  the  public;  and  moderate  portions  prosper  best  in  both. 
A  great  estate  left  to  an  heir  is  as  a  lure  to  all  the  birds  of 
prey  round  about,  to  seize  on  him,  if  he  be  not  the  better  estab- 
lished in  years  and  judgment.  Likewise  glorious  gifts  and  foun- 
dations   are    like    sacrifices    without    salt;     and   but    the    painted 


FRANCIS   BACON  347 

sepulches  of  alms,  which  soon  will  putrefy  and  corrupt  inwardly. 
Therefore  measure  not  thine  advancements  by  quantity,  but  frame 
them  by  measure ;  and  defer  not  charities  till  death :  for  cer- 
tainly, if  a  man  weigh  it  rightly,  he  that  doth  so  is  rather  liberal 
of  another  man's  than  of  his  own. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


OF   NATURE   IN   MEN 

Nature  is  often  hidden,  sometimes  overcome,  seldom  extin- 
guished. Force  maketh  nature  more  violent  in  the  return; 
doctrine  and  discourse  maketh  nature  less  importune;  but 
custom  only  doth  alter  and  subdue  nature.  He  that  seeketh  vic- 
tory over  his  nature,  let  him  not  set  himself  too  great,  nor  too 
small  tasks;  for  the  first  will  make  him  dejected  by  often  fail- 
ings; and  the  second  will  make  him  a  small  proceeder,  though 
by  often  prevailings.  And  at  the  first,  let  him  practice  with 
helps,  as  swimmers  do  with  bladders  or  rushes:  but  after  a  time, 
let  him  practice  with  disadvantages,  as  dancers  do  with  thick 
shoes.  For  it  breeds  great  perfection,  if  the  practice  be  harder 
than  the  use.  Where  nature  is  mighty,  and  therefore  the  victory 
hard,  the  degrees  had  need  be,  first  to  stay  and  arrest  nature  in 
time;  like  to  him  that  would  say  over  the  four  and  twenty  let- 
ters when  he  was  angry:  then  to  go  less  in  quantity;  as  if  one 
should,  in  forbearing  wine,  come  from  drinking  healths  to  a 
draught  at  a  meal;  and  lastly,  to  discontinue  altogether.  But  if 
a  man  have  the  fortitude  and  resolution  to  enfranchise  himself 
at  once,  that  is  the  best:  — 

^Optimus  ilk  animi  vindex,  Itzdentia  pectus 
Vinculo,  qui  rupit,  dedoluitque  semel.}> 

Neither  is  the  ancient  rule  amiss,  to  bend  nature  as  a  wand  to  a 
contrary  extreme,  whereby  to  set  it  right :  understanding  it  where 
the  contrary  extreme  is  no  vice.  Let  not  a  man  force  a  habit 
upon  himself  with  a  perpetual  continuance,  but  with  some  intermis- 
sion. For  both  the  pause  reinforceth  the  new  onset;  and  if  a 
man  that  is  not  perfect  be  ever  in  practice,  he  shall  as  well 
practice  his  errors  as  his  abilities,  and  induce  one  habit  of  both; 
and  there  is  no  means  to  help  this  but  by  seasonable  intermis- 
sions.     But  let  not  a  man  trust  his  victory  over  his  nature  too 


348  FRANCIS    BACON 

far;  for  nature  will  lie  buried  a  great  time,  and  yet  revive  upon 
the  occasion  or  temptation.  Like  as  it  was  with  ^Esop's  damsel, 
turned  from  a  cat  to  a  woman,  who  sat  very  demurely  at  the 
board's  end,  till  a  mouse  ran  before  her.  Therefore  let  a  man 
either  avoid  the  occasion  altogether,  or  put  himself  often  to  it, 
that  he  may  be  little  moved  with  it.  A  man's  nature  is  best 
perceived  in  privateness,  for  there  is  no  affectation;  in  passion,  for 
that  putteth  a  man  out  of  his  precepts;  and  in  a  new  case  or 
experiment,  for  there  custom  leaveth  him.  They  are  happy  men, 
whose  natures  sort  with  their  vocations;  otherwise  they  may  say, 
^Multum  incola  fuit  anima  mea*  when  they  converse  in  those 
things  they  do  not  affect.  In  studies,  whatsoever  a  man  com- 
mandeth  upon  himself,  let  him  set  hours  for  it;  but  whatsoever 
is  agreeable  to  his  nature,  let  him  take  no  care  for  any  set 
times;  for  his  thoughts  will  fly  to  it  of  themselves,  so  as  the 
spaces  of  other  business  or  studies  will  suffice.  A  man's  nature 
runs  either  to  herbs  or  weeds;  therefore  let  him  seasonably 
water  the  one  and  destroy  the  other. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


OF   CUSTOM   AND   EDUCATION 

Men's  thoughts  are  much  according  to  their  inclination;  their 
discourse  and  speeches  according  to  their  learning  and  in- 
fused opinions;  but  their  deeds  are  after  as  they  have  been 
accustomed.  And  therefore,  as  Machiavel  well  noteth,  though  in 
an  evil-favored  instance,  there  is  no  trusting  to  the  force  of  na- 
ture, nor  to  the  bravery  of  words,  except  it  be  corroborate  by 
custom.  His  instance  is,  that  for  the  achieving  of  a  desperate 
conspiracy  a  man  should  not  rest  upon  the  fierceness  of  any 
man's  nature,  or  his  resolute  undertakings;  but  take  such  an  one 
as  hath  had  his  hands  formerly  in  blood.  But  Machiavel  knew 
not  of  a  friar  Clement,  nor  a  Ravillac,  nor  a  Jaureguy,  nor  a 
Baltazar  Gerard:  yet  his  rule  holdeth  still,  that  nature,  nor  the 
engagement  of  words,  are  not  so  forcible  as  custom.  Only  super- 
stition is  now  so  well  advanced,  that  men  of  the  first  blood  are 
as  firm  as  butchers  by  occupation :  and  votary  resolution  is  made 
equipollent  to  custom,  even  in  matter  of  blood.  In  other  things, 
the  predominancy  of  custom  is  everywhere  visible;  insomuch  as 
a  man  would  wonder  to  hear  men  profess,  protest,  engage,  give 


FRANCIS    BACON  349 

great  words,  and  then  do  just  as  they  have  done  before:  as  if 
they  were  dead  images,  and  engines  moved  only  by  the  wheels 
of  custom.  We  see  also  the  reign  or  tyranny  of  custom  what  it 
is.  The  Indians,  I  mean  the  sect  of  their  wise  men,  lay  them- 
selves quietly  upon  a  stack  of  wood,  and  so  sacrifice  themselves 
by  fire.  Nay,  the  wives  strive  to  be  burned  with  the  corpses  of 
their  husbands. 

The  lads  of  Sparta,  of  ancient  time,  were  wont  to  be  scourged 
upon  the  altar  of  Diana,  without  so  much  as  queching.  I  re- 
member in  the  beginning  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  time  of  England, 
an  Irish  rebel  condemned  put  up  a  petition  to  the  deputy  that  he 
might  be  hanged  in  a  withe,  and  not  in  a  halter,  because  it  had 
been  so  used  with  former  rebels.  There  be  monks  in  Russia, 
that  for  penance,  will  sit  a  whole  night  in  a  vessel  of  water  till 
they  be  engaged  with  hard  ice.  Many  examples  may  be  put  of 
the  force  of  custom,  both  upon  mind  and  body.  Therefore,  since 
custom  is  the  principal  magistrate  of  man's  life,  let  men  by  all 
means  endeavor  to  obtain  good  customs.  Certainly  custom  is 
most  perfect  when  it  beginneth  in  young  years:  this  we  call  edu- 
cation, which  is,  in  effect,  but  an  early  custom.  So  we  see  in 
languages,  the  tongue  is  more  pliant  to  all  expressions  and 
sounds,  the  joints  are  more  supple  to  all  feats  of  activity  and 
motions  in  youth  than  afterwards.  For  it  is  true  that  late  learners 
cannot  so  well  take  the  ply,  except  it  be  in  some  minds  that  have 
not  suffered  themselves  to  fix,  but  have  kept  themselves  open  and 
prepared  to  receive  continual  amendment,  which  is  exceeding  rare. 
But  if  the  force  of  custom  simple  and  separate  be  great,  the 
force  of  custom  copulate  and  conjoined  and  collegiate  is  far 
greater.  For  their  example  teacheth,  company  comforteth,  emu- 
lation quickeneth,  glory  raiseth:  so  as  in  such  places  the  force  of 
custom  is  in  its  exaltation.  Certainly  the  great  multiplication  of 
virtues  upon  human  nature  resteth  upon  societies  well  ordained 
and  disciplined.  For  commonwealths  and  good  governments  do 
nourish  virtue  grown,  but  do  not  much  mend  the  seeds.  But 
the  misery  is  that  the  most  effectual  means  are  now  applied  to 
the  ends  least  to  be  desired. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. w 


350  FRANCIS   BACON 


OF   FORTUNE 

It  cannot  be  denied  but  outward  accidents  conduce  much  to 
fortune:  favor,  opportunity,  death  of  others,  occasion  fitting 
virtue.  But  chiefly,  the  mold  of  a  man's  fortune  is  in  his 
own  hands.  <( Faber  quisque  fortunes  suce*  saith  the  poet.  And 
the  most  frequent  of  external  causes  is  that  the  folly  of  one  man 
is  the  fortune  of  another.  For  no  man  prospers  so  suddenly  as 
by  others'  errors.  <c  Serpens  nisi  serpent  em  comederit  non  fit  draco* 
Overt  and  apparent  virtues  bring  forth  praise;  but  there  be  secret 
and  hidden  virtues  that  bring  forth  fortune;  certain  deliveries  of 
a  man's  self,  which  have  no  name.  The  Spanish  name,  desem- 
boltura,  partly  expresseth  them;  when  there  be  not  stonds,  nor 
restiveness  in  a  man's  nature,  but  that  the  wheels  of  his  mind 
keep  way  with  the  wheels  of  his  fortune.  For  so  Livy,  after  he 
had  described  Cato  Major  in  these  words:  *in  Mo  viro,  tantum 
robur  corporis  et  animi  fuit,  tit  quocunque  loco  natus  esset,  fortu- 
nam  sibi  facturus  videretur *  /  f alleth  upon  that,  that  he  had 
versatile  ingenium.  Therefore,  if  a  man  look  sharply  and  atten- 
tively, he  shall  see  Fortune;  for  though  she  be  blind,  yet  she  is 
not  invisible.  The  way  of  fortune  is  like  the  milky  way  in  the 
sky,  which  is  a  meeting  or  knot  of  a  number  of  small  stars,  not 
seen  asunder,  but  giving  light  together.  So  are  there  a  number 
of  little  and  scarce  discerned  virtues,  or  rather  faculties  and  cus- 
toms, that  make  men  fortunate.  The  Italians  note  some  of  them, 
such  as  a  man  would  little  think.  When  they  speak  of  one  that 
cannot  do  amiss,  they  will  throw  into  his  other  conditions  that 
he  hath  (<  Poco  di  mat  to*  And  certainly  there  be  not  two  more 
fortunate  properties  than  to  have  a  little  of  the  fool  and  not  too 
much  of  the  honest.  Therefore  extreme  lovers  of  their  country, 
or  masters,  were  never  fortunate,  neither  can  they  be.  For 
when  a  man  placeth  his  thoughts  without  himself,  he  goeth  not 
his  own  way.  A  hasty  fortune  maketh  an  interprizer  and  re- 
mover; the  French  hath  it  better,  entreprenant  or  remnant,  but 
the  exercised  fortune  maketh  the  able  man.  Fortune  is  to  be 
honored  and  respected,  and  it  be  but  for  our  daughters,  Confi- 
dence and  Reputation.  For  these  two  felicity  breedeth :  the  first 
within  a  man's  self;  the  latter  in  others  towards  him.  All  wise 
men,  to  decline  the  envy  of  their  own  virtues,  use  to  ascribe 
them    to    Providence    and    fortune;    for    so    they    may    the    better 


FRANCIS   BACON  351 

assume  them:  and  besides,  it  is  greatness  in  a  man  to  be  the 
care  of  the  higher  powers.  So  Caesar  said  to  the  pilot  in  the 
tempest,  a  Ccesarem  portas,  et  fortunam  ejus. n  So  Sylla  chose 
the  name  of  fe/ix,  and  not  of  magnus:  and  it  hath  been  noted 
that  those  that  ascribe  openly  too  much  to  their  own  wisdom  and 
policy  end  unfortunate.  It  is  written  that  Timotheus  the  Athe- 
nian, after  he  had,  in  the  account  he  gave  to  the  state  of  his  gov- 
ernment, often  interlaced  this  speech,  c<  And  in  this  fortune  had 
no  part, B  never  prospered  in  anything  he  undertook  afterwards. 
Certainly  there  be,  whose  fortunes  are  like  Homer's  verses,  that 
have  a  slide  and  easiness,  more  than  the  verses  of  other  poets: 
as  Plutarch  saith  of  Timoleon's  fortune,  in  respect  of  that  of 
Agesilaus  or  Epaminondas.  And  that  this  should  be,  no  doubt 
it  is  much  in  a  man's  self. 

Complete.     From  "Essays  Civil  and  Moral. )} 


OF   USURY 

Many  have  made  witty  invectives  against  usury.*      They  say 
that  it  is  pity  the  devil  should  have  God's  part,  which  is 
the  tithe.     That  the  usurer  is  the  greatest  Sabbath  breaker, 
because  his  plough  goeth  every  Sunday.      That  the  usurer  is  the 
drone  that  Virgil  speaketh  of :  — 

(<  Ignavum  fucos  pccus  a  prcesepibus  arcent. 8 

That  the  usurer  breaketh  the  first  law  that  was  made  for  man- 
kind after  the  fall,  which  was:  a  In  sudor e  vultus  tui  comedes 
partem  tuiun* :  not,  *  In  sudor  e  vultus  alieni*  That  usurers 
should  have  orange-tawney  bonnets,  because  they  do  judaize. 
That  it  is  against  nature  for  money  to  beget  money:  and  the 
like  I  say  this  only  that  usury  is  a  (<  concessum  propter  duritiem 
cordis  n;  for  since  there  must  be  borrowing  and  lending,  and  men 
are  so  hard  of  heart  as  they  will  not  lend  freely,  usury  must  be 
permitted.  Some  others  have  made  suspicious  and  cunning  prop- 
ositions of  banks,  discovery  of  men's  estates,  and  other  inven- 
tions. But  few  have  spoken  of  usury  usefully.  It  is  good  to  set 
before  us  the  incommodities  and  commodities  of  usury  that  the 
good  may  be   either  weighed   out,  or   culled   out;    and  warily  to 

*The  usury  here  meant  is  any  income  from  money  invested  at  the  risk  of 
others. 


35- 


FRANCIS   BACON 


provide,   that  while   we   make    forth    to    that    which    is  better   we 
meet  not  with  that  which  is  worse. 

The  discommodities  of  usury  are:  first,  that  it  makes  fewer 
merchants.  For  were  it  not  for  this  lazy  trade  of  usury,  money 
would  not  lie  still,  but  would  in  great  part  be  employed  upon 
merchandizing;  which  is  the  vena  porta  of  wealth  in  state.  The 
second,  that  it  makes  poor  merchants.  For  as  a  farmer  cannot 
husband  his  ground  so  well,  if  he  sit  at  a  great  rent;  so  the 
merchant  cannot  drive  his  trade  so  well,  if  he  sit  at  great  usury. 
The  third  is  incident  to  the  other  two;  and  that  is,  the  decay  of 
customs  of  kings  or  states,  which  ebb  or  flow  with  merchandizing. 
The  fourth,  that  it  bringeth  the  treasure  of  a  realm  of  state  into 
a  few  hands.  For  the  usurer  being  at  certainties,  and  others  at 
uncertainties,  at  the  end  of  the  game  most  of  the  money  will  be 
in  the  box;  and  ever  a  state  flourisheth  when  wealth  is  more 
equally  spread.  The  fifth,  that  it  beats  down  the  price  of  land: 
for  the  employment  of  money  is  chiefly  either  merchandizing 
or  purchasing;  and  usury  waylays  both.  The  sixth,  that  it  doth 
dull  and  damp  all  industries,  improvements,  and  new  inventions, 
wherein  money  would  be  stirring,  if  it  were  not  for  this  slug. 
The  last,  that  it  is  the  canker  and  ruin  of  many  men's  estates, 
which  in  process  of  time  breeds  a  public  poverty. 

On  the  other  side,  the  commodities  of  usury  are:  first,  that 
howsoever  usury  in  some  respect  hindereth  merchandizing,  yet  in 
some  other  it  advanceth  it;  for  it  is  certain  that  the  greatest  part 
of  trade  is  driven  by  young  merchants,  upon  borrowing  at  in- 
terest; so  as  if  the  usurer  either  call  in  or  keep  back  his  money, 
there  will  ensue  presently  a  great  stand  of  trade.  The  second 
is,  that  were  it  not  for  this  easy  borrowing  upon  interest,  men's 
necessities  would  draw  upon  them  a  most  sudden  undoing;  in  that 
they  would  be  forced  to  sell  their  means,  be  it  lands  or  goods, 
far  under  foot;  and  so  whereas  usury  doth  but  gnaw  upon  them, 
bad  markets  would  swallow  them  quite  up.  As  for  mortgaging 
or  pawning,  it  will  little  mend  the  matter:  for  either  men  will 
not  take  pawns  without  use;  or,  if  they  do,  they  will  look  pre- 
cisely for  the  forfeiture.  I  remember  a  cruel  monied  man  in  the 
country,  that  would  say :  <(  The  devil  take  this  usury,  it  keeps  us 
from  forfeitures  of  mortgages  and  bonds. w  The  third  and  last  is, 
that  it  is  a  vanity  to  conceive,  that  there  would  be  ordinary  bor- 
rowing without  profit;  and  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  the  num- 
ber of  inconveniences  that  will  ensue,  if    borrowing  be   cramped. 


FRANCIS   BACON  353 

Therefore  to  speak  of  the  abolishing  of  usury  is  idle.  All  states 
have  ever  had  it  in  one  kind  or  rate,  or  other.  So  as  that  opin- 
ion must  be  sent  to  Utopia. 

To  speak  now  of  the  reformation  and  reglement  of  usury: 
how  the  discommodities  of  it  may  be  best  avoided,  and  the  com- 
modities retained:  it  appears  by  the  balance  of  commodities  and 
discommodities  of  usury,  two  things  are  to  be  reconciled.  The 
one,  that  the  tooth  of  usury  be  grinded  that  it  bite  not  too  much; 
the  other,  that  there  be  left  open  a  means  to  invite  monied  men 
to  lend  to  the  merchants,  for  the  continuing  and  quickening  of 
trade.  This  cannot  be  done,  except  you  introduce  two  several 
sorts  of  usury,  a  less  and  a  greater.  For  if  you  reduce  usury  to 
one  low  rate,  it  will  ease  the  common  borrower,  but  the  merchant 
will  be  to  seek  for  money.  And  it  is  to  be  noted,  that  the  trade 
of  merchandize  being  the  most  lucrative,  may  bear  usury  at  a 
good  rate;  other  contracts  not   so. 

To  serve  both  intentions,  the  way  would  be  briefly  thus.  That 
there  be  two  rates  of  usury:  the  one  free  and  general  for  all; 
the  other  under  license  only  to  certain  persons,  and  in  certain 
places  of  merchandizing.  First,  therefore,  let  usury  in  general  be 
reduced  to  five  in  the  hundred;  and  let  that  rate  be  proclaimed 
to  be  free  and  current,  and  let  the  state  shut  itself  out  to  take 
any  penalty  for  the  same.  This  will  preserve  borrowing  from 
any  general  stop  or  dryness.  This  will  ease  infinite  borrowers  in 
the  country.  This  will  in  good  part  raise  the  price  of  land,  be- 
cause land  purchased  at  sixteen  years'  purchase  will  yield  six  in 
the  hundred  and  somewhat  more,  whereas  this  rate  of  interest 
yields  but  five.  This  by  like  reason  will  encourage  and  edge  in- 
dustrious and  profitable  improvements;  because  many  will  rather 
venture  in  that  kind  than  take  five  in  the  hundred,  especially 
having  been  used  to  greater  profit.  Secondly,  let  there  be  cer- 
tain persons  licensed  to  lend  to  known  merchants,  upon  usury  at 
a  higher  rate :  and  let  it  be  with  the  cautions  following.  Let  the 
rate  be,  even  with  the  merchant  himself,  somewhat  more  easy 
than  that  he  used  formerly  to  pay :  for  by  that  means  all  borrow- 
ers shall  have  some  ease  by  this  reformation,  be  he  merchant  or 
whosoever.  Let  it  be  no  bank,  or  common  stock,  but  every  man 
be  master  of  his  own  money.  Not  that  I  altogether  mislike  banks, 
but  they  will  hardly  be  brooked  in  regard  of  certain  suspicions. 
Let  the  state  be  answered  some  small  matter  for  the  license,  and 
the  rest  left  to  the  lender;  for  if  the  abatement  be  but  small,  it 
i — 23 


354  FRANCIS   BACON 

will  no  whit  discourage  the  lender.  For  he,  for  example,  that 
took  before  ten  or  nine  in  the  hundred,  will  sooner  descend  to 
eight  in  the  hundred  than  give  over  his  trade  of  usury;  and  go 
from  certain  gains  to  gains  of  hazard.  Let  these  licensed  lenders 
be  in  number  indefinite,  but  restrained  to  certain  principal  cities 
and  towns  of  merchandizing;  for  then  they  will  be  hardly  able  to 
color  other  men's  moneys  in  the  country;  so  as  the  license  of 
nine  will  not  suck  away  the  current  rate  of  five :  for  no  man  will 
send  his  moneys  far  off,  nor  put  them  into  unknown  hands. 

If  it  be  objected  that  this  doth  in  a  sort  authorize  usury, 
which  before  was  in  some  places  but  permissive,  the  answer  is, 
that  it  is  better  to  mitigate  usury  by  declaration  than  to  suffer 
it  to  rage  by  connivance. 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


OF  YOUTH    AND   AGE 

A  man  that  is  young  in  years  may  be  old  in  hours,  if  he  have 
lost  no  time.  But  that  happeneth  rarely.  Generally  youth 
is  like  the  first  cogitations,  not  so  wise  as  the  second.  For 
there  is  a  youth  in  thoughts,  as  well  as  in  ages.  And  yet  the 
invention  of  young  men  is  more  lively  than  that  of  old;  and 
imaginations  stream  into  their  minds  better,  and  as  it  were  more 
divinely.  Natures  that  have  much  heat,  and  great  and  violent  de- 
sires and  perturbations  are  not  ripe  for  action,  till  they  have  passed 
the  meridian  of  their  years:  as  it  was  with  Julius  Caesar  and 
Septimius  Severus.  Of  the  latter  of  whom  it  is  said,  (<  Juventutem 
egit  erroribtis,  imo  furoribiis,  plenam. y)  And  yet  he  was  the  ablest 
emperor  almost  of  all  the  list.  But  reposed  natures  may  do  well 
in  youth;  as  it  is  seen  in  Augustus  Caesar,  Cosmus,  duke  of  Flor- 
ence, Gaston  de  Fois,  and  others.  On  the  other  side,  heat  and 
vivacity  in  age  is  an  excellent  composition  for  business.  Young 
men  are  fitter  to  invent  than  to  judge;  fitter  for  execution  than 
for  counsel;  and  fitter  for  new  projects  than  for  settled  business. 
For  the  experience  of  age,  in  things  that  fall  within  the  compass  of 
it,  directeth  them ;  but  in  new  things  abuseth  them.  The  errors 
of  young  men  are  the  ruin  of  business;  but  the  errors  of  aged 
men  amount  but  to  this,  that  more  might  have  been  done,  or 
sooner.  Young  men,  in  the  conduct  and  manage  of  actions,  em- 
brace more  than  they  can  hold;    stir  more  than  they  can  quiet; 


FRANCIS    BACON  355 

fly  to  the  end,  without  consideration  of  the  means  and  degrees; 
pursue  some  few  principles,  which  they  have  chanced  upon,  ab- 
surdly; care  not  to  innovate,  which  draws  unknown  inconven- 
iences; use  extreme  remedies  at  first;  and  that  which  doubleth 
all  errors,  will  not  acknowledge  or  retract  them:  like  an  unready 
horse,  that  will  neither  stop  nor  turn.  Men  of  age  object  too 
much,  consult  too  long,  adventure  too  little,  repent  too  soon,  and 
seldom  drive  business  home  to  the  full  period;  but  content  them- 
selves with  a  mediocrity  of  success.  Certainly  it  is  good  to  com- 
pound employments  of  both;  for  that  will  be  good  for  the 
present,  because  the  virtues  of  either  age  may  correct  the  defects 
of  both:  and  good  for  succession,  that  young  men  may  be  learn- 
ers, while  men  in  age  are  actors:  and,  lastly,  good  for  extern 
accidents,  because  authority  followeth  old  men,  and  favor  and 
popularity  youth.  But  for  the  moral  part,  perhaps  youth  will 
have  the  pre-eminence,  as  age  hath  for  the  politic.  A  certain 
Rabbin  upon  the  text,  "Your  young  men  shall  see  visions,  and 
your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams, B  inferreth,  that  young  men 
are  admitted  nearer  to  God  than  old;  because  vision  is  a  clearer 
revelation  than  a  dream.  And  certainly  the  more  a  man  drink- 
eth  of  the  world,  the  more  it  intoxicateth ;  and  age  doth  profit 
rather  in  the  powers  of  understanding  than  in  the  virtues  of  the 
will  and  affections.  There  be  some  have  an  over-early  ripeness 
in  their  years,  which  fadeth  betimes:  these  are  first,  such  as  have 
brittle  wits,  the  edge  whereof  is  soon  turned;  such  as  was  Her- 
mogenes  the  rhetorician,  whose  books  are  exceeding  subtile,  who 
afterwards  waxed  stupid.  A  second  sort  is  of  those  that  have 
some  natural  dispositions,  which  have  better  grace  in  youth  than 
in  age:  such  as  is  a  fluent  and  luxuriant  speech;  which  becomes 
youth  well,  but  not  age.  So  Tully  saith  of  Hortensius,  *  Idem 
manebat,  neque  idem  decebat*  The  third  is,  of  such  as  take  too 
high  a  strain  at  the  first,  and  are  magnanimous,  more  than  tract 
of  years  can  uphold.  As  was  Scipio  Africanus,  of  whom  Livy 
saith  in  effect,  <(  Ultima  primis  cedebant* 

Complete.     From  (<  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


356  FRANCIS   BACON 


OF    BEAUTY 


Virtue  is  like  a  rich  stone,  best  plain  set:  and  surely  virtue  is 
best  in  a  body  that  is  comely,  though  not  of  delicate  fea- 
tures; and  that  hath  rather  dignity  of  presence  than  beauty 
of  aspect.  Neither  is  it  almost  seen,  that  very  beautiful  persons 
are  otherwise  of  great  virtue.  As  if  nature  were  rather  busy  not 
to  err,  than  in  labor  to  produce  excellency.  And  therefore  they 
prove  accomplished,  but  not  of  great  spirit;  and  study  rather  be- 
havior than  virtue.  But  this  holds  not  always;  for  Augustus 
Caesar,  Titus  Vespasianus,  Philip  le  Bel  of  France,  Edward  IV. 
of  England,  Alcibiades  of  Athens,  Ismael  the  sophi  of  Persia, 
were  all  high  and  great  spirits;  and  yet  the  most  beautiful 
men  of  their  times.  In  beauty,  that  of  favor  is  more  than 
that  of  color:  and  that  of  descent  and  gracious  motion  more  than 
that  of  favor.  That  is  the  best  part  of  beauty,  which  a  picture 
cannot  express:  no,  nor  the  first  sight  of  the  life.  There  is  no 
excellent  beauty  that  hath  not  some  strangeness  in  the  propor- 
tion. A  man  cannot  tell  whether  Apelles  or  Albert  Durer  were 
the  more  trifler;  whereof  the  one  would  make  a  personage  by 
geometrical  proportions;  the  other,  by  taking  the  best  parts  out 
of  divers  faces,  to  make  one  excellent.  Such  personages,  I  think, 
would  please  nobody  but  the  painter  that  made  them.  Not  but 
I  think  a  painter  may  make  a  better  face  than  ever  was;  but  he 
must  do  it  by  a  kind  of  felicity,  as  a  musician  that  maketh  an 
excellent  air  in  music,  and  not  by  rule.  A  man  shall  see  faces, 
that  if  you  examine  them  part  by  part,  you  shall  never  find  a 
good;  and  yet  altogether  do  well.  If  it  be  true  that  the  princi- 
pal part  of  beauty  is  in  decent  motion,  certainly  it  is  no  mar- 
vel though  persons  in  years  seem  many  times  more  amiable; 
^ pule hr or um  aiitamniis  pulcher  *.•  for  no  youth  can  be  comely  but 
by  pardon,  and,  considering  the  youth,  as  to  make  up  the  comeli- 
ness. Beauty  is  as  summer  fruits,  which  are  easy  to  corrupt,  and 
cannot  last;  and  for  the  most  part  it  makes  a  dissolute  youth, 
and  an  age  a  little  out  of  countenance;  but  yet  certainly  again, 
if  it  light  well,  it  maketh  virtues  shine  and  vices  blush. 

Complete.     From  (<  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


FRANCIS   BACON  357 


OF   DELAYS 


Fortune  is  like  the  market,  where  many  times  if  you  can  stay 
a  little,  the  price  will  fall.  And  again,  it  is  sometimes  like 
Sibylla's  offer,  which  at  first  offereth  the  commodity  at  full, 
then  consumeth  part  and  part,  and  still  holdeth  up  the  price. 
For  occasion,  as  it  is  in  the  common  verse,  turneth  a  bald  noddle, 
after  she  hath  presented  her  locks  in  front,  and  no  hold  taken: 
or  at  least  turneth  the  handle  of  the  bottle  first  to  be  received, 
and  after  the  belly,  which  is  hard  to  clasp.  There  is  surely  no 
greater  wisdom,  than  well  to  time  the  beginnings  and  onsets  of 
things.  Dangers  are  no  more  light,  if  they  once  seem  light;  and 
more  dangers  have  deceived  men  than  forced  them.  Nay,  it 
were  better  to  meet  some  dangers  half  way,  though  they  come 
nothing  near,  than  to  keep  too  long  a  watch  upon  their  ap- 
proaches; for  if  a  man  watch  too  long,  it  is  odds  he  will  fall 
asleep.  On  the  other  side,  to  be  deceived  with  too  long  shadows, 
as  some  have  been  when  the  moon  was  low,  and  shone  on  their 
enemies'  back,  and  so  to  shoot  off  before  the  time;  or  to  teach 
dangers  to  come  on,  by  over-early  buckling  towards  them,  is  an- 
other extreme.  The  ripeness  or  unripeness  of  the  occasion,  as 
we  said,  must  ever  be  well  weighed;  and  generally  it  is  good  to 
commit  the  beginnings  of  all  great  actions  to  Argus  with  his 
hundred  eyes,  and  the  ends  to  Briareus  with  his  hundred  hands; 
first  to  watch,  and  then  to  speed.  For  the  helmet  of  Pluto, 
which  maketh  the  politic  man  go  invisible,  is  secrecy  in  the  coun- 
sel and  celerity  in  the  execution.  For  when  things  are  once 
come  to  the  execution,  there  is  no  secrecy  comparable  to  celer- 
ity; like  the  motion  of  a  bullet  in  the  air,  which  flieth  so  swift 
as  it  outruns  the  eye. 

Complete.     From  « Essays  Civil  and  MoraL* 


OF   CUNNING 

We    take    cunning    for    a    sinister    or    crooked    wisdom.     And 
certainly  there  is  great  difference  between  a  cunning  man 
and   a   wise    man ;    not   only  in    point    of   honesty,  but   in 
point  of  ability.     There  be  that  can  pack  the  cards,  and  yet  can- 
not play  well;  so  there  are  some  that  are  good  in  canvasses  and 


358  FRANCIS   BACON 

factions,  that  are  otherwise  weak  men.  Again,  it  is  one  thing  to 
understand  persons,  and  another  thing  to  understand  matters:  for 
many  are  perfect  in  men's  humors  that  are  not  greatly  capable 
of  the  real  part  of  business:  which  is  the  constitution  of  one  that 
hath  studied  men  more  than  books.  Such  men  are  fitter  for 
practice  than  for  counsel;  and  they  are  good  but  in  their  own 
alley:  turn  them  to  new  men,  and  they  have  lost  their  aim:  so 
as  the  old  rule  to  know  a  fool  from  a  wise  man,  <(  Mitte  ambos 
nudos  ad  ignotos,  et  videbis*  doth  scarce  hold  for  them.  And  be- 
cause these  cunning  men  are  like  haberdashers  of  small  wares,  it 
is  not  amiss  to  set  forth  their  shop. 

It  is  a  point  of  cunning  to  wait  upon  him  with  whom  you 
speak  with  your  eye;  as  the  Jesuits  give  it  in  precept;  for  there 
be  many  wise  men  that  have  secret  hearts  and  transparent  coun- 
tenances. Yet  this  would  be  done  with  a  demure  abashing  of 
your  eye  sometimes,  as  the  Jesuits  also  do  use. 

Another  is  that  when  you  have  anything  to  obtain  of  present 
despatch,  you  entertain  and  amuse  the  party  with  whom  you  deal 
with  some  other  discourse ;  that  he  be  not  too  much  awake  to 
make  objections.  I  knew  a  counselor  and  secretary  that  never 
came  to  Queen  Elizabeth  of  England  with  bills  to  sign,  but  he 
would  always  first  put  her  into  some  discourse  of  estate,  that  she 
might  the  less  mind  the  bills. 

The  like  surprise  may  be  made  by  moving  things  when  the 
party  is  in  haste,  and  cannot  stay  to  consider  advisedly  of  that  is 
moved. 

If  a  man  would  cross  a  business  that  he  doubts  some  other 
would  handsomely  and  effectually  move,  let  him  pretend  to  wish 
it  well,  and  move  it  himself  in  such  sort  as  may  foil  it. 

The  breaking  off  in  the  midst  of  that  one  was  about  to  say, 
as  if  he  took  himself  up,  breeds  a  greater  appetite  in  him  with 
whom  you  confer  to  know  more. 

And  because  it  works  better  when  anything  seemeth  to  be 
gotten  from  you  by  question,  than  if  you  offer  it  of  yourself,  you 
may  lay  a  bait  for  a  question  by  showing  another  visage  and 
countenance  than  you  are  wont:  to  the  end  to  give  occasion  for 
the  party  to  ask  what  the  matter  is  of  the  change, — as  Nehemiah 
did:  wAnd  I  had  not  before  that  time  been  sad  before  the  king." 

In  things  that  are  tender  and  unpleasing,  it  is  good  to  break 
the  ice  by  some  whose  words  are  of  less  weight,  and  to  reserve 
the  more  weighty  voice  to  come  in  as  by  chance,  so  that  he  may 


FRANCIS   BACON  359 

be  asked  the  question  upon  the  other's  speech;  as  Narcissus  did, 
in  relating  to  Claudius  the  marriage  of  Messalina  and  Silius. 

In  things  that  a  man  would  not  be  seen  in  himself,  it  is  a 
point  of  cunning  to  borrow  the  name  of  the  world;  as  to  say, 
The  world  says,  or,  There  is  a  speech  abroad. 

I  knew  one,  that  when  he  wrote  a  letter,  he  would  put  that 
which  was  most  material  in  the  postscript  as  if  it  had  been  a 
bye-matter. 

I  knew  another,  that  when  he  came  to  have  speech,  he  would 
pass  over  that  that  he  intended  most,  and  go  forth  and  come 
back  again,  and  speak  of  it  as  a  thing  that  he  had  almost  for- 
got. 

Some  procure  themselves  to  be  surprised  at  such  times,  as  it 
is  like  the  party  that  they  work  upon  will  suddenly  come  upon 
them;  and  to  be  found  with  a  letter  in  their  hand,  or  doing 
somewhat  which  they  are  not  accustomed,  to  the  end  they  may 
be  apposed  of  those  things  which  of  themselves  they  are  desirous 
to  utter. 

It  is  a  point  of  cunning  to  let  fall  those  words  in  a  man's 
own  name,  which  he  would  have  another  man  learn  and  use, 
and  thereupon  take  advantage.  I  knew  two  that  were  com- 
petitors for  the  secretary's  place  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  and 
yet  kept  good  quarter  between  themselves,  and  would  confer 
one  with  another  upon  the  business;  and  the  one  of  them  said 
that  to  be  a  secretary  in  the  declination  of  a  monarchy  was  a 
ticklish  thing,  and  that  he  did  not  affect  it;  the  other  straight 
caught  up  those  words,  and  discoursed  with  divers  of  his  friends, 
that  he  had  no  reason  to  desire  to  be  secretary  in  the  declina- 
tion of  a  monarchy.  The  first  man  took  hold  of  it,  and  found 
means  it  was  told  the  queen;  who,  hearing  of  a  declination  of 
the  monarchy,  took  it  so  ill,  as  she  would  never  after  hear  of  the 
other's  suit. 

There  is  a  cunning  which  we  in  England  call  the  turning  of 
the  cat  in  the  pan,  which  is,  when  that  which  a  man  saith  to 
another,  he  lays  it  as  if  another  had  said  it  to  him;  and  to  say 
truth,  it  is  not  easy,  when  such  a  matter  passed  between  two,  to 
make  it  appear  from  which  of  them  it  first  moved  and  began. 

It  is  a  way  that  some  men  have,  to  glance  and  dart  at  others, 
by  justifying  themselves  by  negatives;  as  to  say,  This  I  do  not: 
as  Tigellinus  did  towards  Burrhus :  (<  Se  non  diver  sets  spes,  sed  in- 
columitatem  imperatoris  simpliciter  spectare* 


360  FRANCIS    BACON 

Some  have  in  readiness  so  many  tales  and  stories,  as  there  is 
nothing  they  would  insinuate  but  they  can  wrap  it  into  a  tale; 
which  serveth  both  to  keep  themselves  more  in  guard  and  to 
make  others  carry  it  with  more  pleasure. 

It  is  a  good  point  in  cunning  for  a  man  to  shape  the  answer 
he  would  have  in  his  own  words  and  propositions;  for  it  makes 
the  other  party  stick  the  less. 

It  is  strange  how  long  some  men  will  lie  in  wait  to  speak 
somewhat  they  desire  to  say,  and  how  far  about  they  will  fetch, 
and  how  many  other  matters  they  will  beat  over  to  come  near 
it;  it  is  a  thing  of  great  patience,  but  yet  of  much  use. 

A  sudden,  bold,  and  unexpected  question  doth  many  times  sur- 
prise a  man  and  lay  him  open.  Like  to  him,  that  having  changed 
his  name,  and  walking  in  Paul's,  another  suddenly  came  behind 
him  and  called  him  by  his  true  name,  whereat  straightways  he 
looked  back. 

But  these  small  wares  and  petty  points  of  cunning  are  in- 
finite, and  it  were  a  good  deed  to  make  a  list  of  them;  for  that 
nothing  doth  more  hurt  in  a  state  than  that  cunning  men  pass 
for  wise. 

But  certainly  some  there  are  that  know  the  resorts  and  falls 
of  business,  that  cannot  sink  into  the  main  of  it,  like  a  house 
that  hath  convenient  stairs  and  entries,  but  never  a  fair  room. 
Therefore,  you  shall  see  them  find  out  pretty  losses  in  the  con- 
clusion, but  are  no  ways  able  to  examine  or  debate  matters. 
And  yet  commonly  they  take  advantage  of  their  inability  and 
would  be  thought  wits  of  direction.  Some  build  rather  upon  the 
abusing  of  others,  and,  as  we  now  say,  putting  tricks  upon  them, 
than  upon  soundness  of  their  own  proceedings.  But  Solomon 
saith:  (( Prudens  advertit  ad  gressus  suos :  stnltus  diver  tit  ad  do/os.y> 

Complete.     From  «  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


OF  WLSDOM    FOR  A  MAN'S   SELF 

An  ant  is  a  wise  creature  for  itself,  but  it  is  a  shrewd  thing 
in  an  orchard  or  garden.    And  certainly  men  that  are  great 
lovers  of  themselves  waste  the  public.     Divide  with  reason 
between  self-love  and  society,  and  be  so  true  to  thyself   as  thou 
be  not  false  to  others,  especially  to  thy  king  and  country.     It  is 
a  poor  centre   of   a  man's   actions,   Himself       It  is  right   earth. 


FRANCIS   BACON  361 

For  that  only  stands  fast  upon  his  own  centre;  whereas  all  things 
that  have  affinity  with  the  heavens  move  upon  the  centre  of  an- 
other which  they  benefit.      The  referring  of  all  to  a  man's  self 
is  more  tolerable   in   a  sovereign    prince,  because    themselves  are 
not  only  themselves,  but   their   good   and   evil  is  at  the  peril  of 
the  public  fortune.      But  it  is  a  desperate  evil  in  a  servant  to  a 
prince,  or  a  citizen  in   a   republic.       For   whatsoever   affairs   pass 
such  a  man's   hands,  he   crooketh    them  to  his  own   ends;    which 
must  needs  be  often  eccentric  to  the  ends  of  his  master  or  state. 
Therefore,  let  princes  or  states  choose  such  servants  as  have  not 
this  mark,  except   they  mean    their   service   should   be   made   but 
the  accessory.     That  which  maketh  the  effect  more  pernicious  is, 
that  all  proportion  is  lost:   it  were   disproportion   enough  for  the 
servant's  good  to  be  preferred  before   the  master's;    but  yet  it  is 
a  greater  extreme  when  a  little   good  of  the   servant  shall  carry 
things  against  a  great  good  of  the  master's.     And  yet  that  is  the 
case  of  bad  officers,  treasurers,  ambassadors,  generals,  and  other 
false   and  corrupt  servants,  which   set  a  bias  upon  their  bowl   of 
their  own  petty  ends  and  envies,  to   the  overthrow  of  their  mas- 
ter's  great   and    important    affairs.       And   for    the   most   part,  the 
good  such  servants  receive   is  after  the  model  of  their  own  for- 
tune; but  the  hurt  they  sell  for  that  good  is  after  the  model  of 
their  master's  fortune.     And  certainly  it  is  the  nature  of  extreme 
self-lovers  as  they  will  set  a  house   on   fire,  and  it  were   but  to 
roast  their  eggs;  and  yet  these  men  many  times  hold  credit  with 
their   masters    because    their    study   is    but    to    please    them,   and 
profit   themselves,  and   for   either   respect   they  will   abandon   the 
good  of  their  affairs. 

Wisdom  for  a  man's  self  is  in  many  branches  thereof  a  de- 
praved thing.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  rats,  that  will  be  sure  to 
leave  a  house  somewhat  before  it  fall.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  the 
fox,  that  thrusts  out  the  badger,  who  digged  and  made  room  for 
him.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  crocodiles,  that  shed  tears  when  they 
would  devour.  But  that  which  is  specially  to  be  noted  is,  that 
those  which,  as  Cicero  says  of  Pompey,  are  <(sui  amantes  sine  riv- 
aled are  many  times  unfortunate.  And  whereas  they  have  all 
their  time  sacrificed  to  themselves,  they  become  in  the  end  them- 
selves sacrifices  to  the  inconstancy  of  fortune,  whose  wings  they 
thought  by  their  self-wisdom  to  have  pinioned. 

Complete.     From  ((  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


362  FRANCIS   BACON 


OF    INNOVATIONS 


As  the  births  of  living  creatures  at  first  are  ill  shapen;  so  are 
all  innovations,  which  are  the  births  of  time.  Yet  notwith- 
standing as  those  that  first  bring  honor  into  their  family 
are  commonly  more  worthy  than  most  that  succeed,  so  the  first 
precedent,  if  it  be  good,  is  seldom  attained  by  imitation.  For 
ill,  to  man's  nature,  as  it  stands  perverted,  hath  a  natural  motion 
strongest  in  continuance;  but  good,  as  a  forced  motion,  strongest 
at  first.  Surely  every  medicine  is  an  innovation,  and  he  that 
will  not  apply  new  remedies  must  expect  new  evils;  for  time  is 
the  greatest  innovator:  and  if  time  of  course  alter  things  to  the 
worse,  and  wisdom  and  counsel  shall  not  alter  them  to  the  bet- 
ter, what  shall  be  the  end  ?  It  is  true,  that  what  is  settled  by 
custom,  though  it  be  not  good,  yet  at  least  it  is  fit.  And  those 
things  which  have  long  gone  together,  are,  as  it  were,  confeder- 
ate within  themselves:  whereas  new  things  piece  not  so  well*  but 
though  they  help  by  their  utility,  yet  they  trouble  by  their  in- 
conformity.  Besides,  they  are  like  strangers,  more  admired  and 
less  favored.  All  this  is  true  if  time  stood  still;  which  contrari- 
wise moveth  so  round,  that  a  froward  retention  of  custom  is  as 
turbulent  a  thing  as  an  innovation:  and  they  that  reverence  too 
much  old  times  are  but  a  scorn  to  the  new.  It  were  good 
therefore,  that  men  in  their  innovations  would  follow  the  ex- 
ample of  time  itself,  which  indeed  innovateth  greatly,  but  quietly 
and  by  degrees  scarce  to  be  perceived:  for  otherwise,  whatsoever 
is  new  is  unlooked  for;  and  ever  it  mends  some,  and  impairs 
others:  and  he  that  is  holpen  takes  it  for  a  fortune,  and  thanks 
the  time;  and  he  that  is  hurt,  for  a  wrong,  and  imputeth  it  to 
the  author.  It  is  good  also  not  to  try  experiments  in  states,  ex- 
cept the  necessity  be  urgent,  or  the  utility  evident;  and  well  to 
beware  that  it  be  the  reformation  that  draweth  on  the  change, 
and  not  the  desire  of  change  that  pretendeth  the  reformation. 
And  lastly,  that  the  novelty,  though  it  be  not  rejected,  yet  be 
held  for  a  suspect:  and,  as  the  Scripture  saith,  <(  that  we  make  a 
stand  upon  the  ancient  way,  and  then  look  about  us,  and  dis- 
cover what  is  the  straight  and  right  way,   and  so  to  walk   in   it." 

Complete.     From  (<  Essays  Civil  and  Moral. » 


FRANCIS   BACON  363 


THE   ADVANCEMENT   OF   LEARNING 

The  pleasure  and  delight  of  knowledge  and  learning,  it  far  sur- 
passeth  all  other  in  nature.  For,  shall  the  pleasures  of  the 
affections  so  exceed  the  pleasure  of  the  sense,  as  much  as 
the  obtaining  of  desire  or  victory  exceedeth  a  song  or  a  dinner  ? 
and  must  not  of  consequence  the  pleasures  of  the  intellect  or 
understanding  exceed  the  pleasures  of  the  affections  ?  We  see 
in  all  other  pleasures  there  is  satiety,  and  after  they  be  used, 
their  verdure  departeth,  which  showeth  well  they  be  but  deceits 
of  pleasure,  and  not  pleasures;  and  that  it  was  the  novelty 
which  pleased,  and  not  the  quality.  And,  therefore,  we  see  that 
voluptuous  men  turn  friars,  and  ambitious  princes  turn  melan- 
choly. But  of  knowledge  there  is  no  satiety,  but  satisfaction  and 
appetite  are  perpetually  interchangeable ;  and,  therefore,  appeareth 
to  be  good  in  itself  simply,  without  fallacy  or  accident.  Neither 
is  that  pleasure  of  small  efficacy  and  contentment  to  the  mind  of 
man,  which  the  poet  Lucretius  describeth  elegantly:  — 

(< Suave  mari  magno,  turbantibus  cequora  ventis,^  etc. 

<(  It  is  a  view  of  delight, w  saith  he,  (<  to  stand  or  walk  upon 
the  shore  side,  and  to  see  a  ship  tossed  with  tempest  upon  the 
sea;  or  to  be  in  a  fortified  tower,  and  to  see  two  battles  join 
upon  a  plain.  But  it  is  a  pleasure  incomparable,  for  the  mind 
of  man  to  be  settled,  landed,  and  fortified  in  the  certainty  of 
truth;  and  from  thence  to  descry  and  behold  the  errors,  per- 
turbations, labors,  and  wanderings  up  and  down  of  other  men. B 

Lastly,  leaving  the  vulgar  arguments,  that  by  learning  man 
excelleth  man  in  that  wherein  man  excelleth  beasts;  that  by 
learning  man  ascendeth  to  the  heavens  and  their  motions,  wThere 
in  body  he  cannot  come, —  and  the  like;  let  us  conclude  with  the 
dignity  and  excellency  of  knowledge  and  learning  in  that  where- 
unto  man's  nature  doth  most  aspire,  which  is  immortality  or 
continuance;  for  to  this  tendeth  generation,  and  raising  of  houses 
and  families;  to  this  tend  buildings,  foundations,  and  monuments; 
to  this  tendeth  the  desire  of  memory,  fame,  and  celebration;  and 
in  effect  the  strength  of  all  other  human  desires.  We  see  then 
how  far  the  monuments  of  wit  and  learning  are  more  durable 
than  the  monuments  of  power  or  of  the  hands.  For  have  not  the 
verses  of  Homer  continued  twenty-five  hundred  years,  or  more, 


364  FRANCIS   BACON 

without  the  loss  of  a  syllable  or  letter;  during  which  time  in- 
finite palaces,  temples,  castles,  cities,  have  been  decayed  and 
demolished  ?  It  is  not  possible  to  have  the  true  pictures  or 
statues  of  Cyrus,  Alexander,  Caesar,  no  nor  of  the  kings  or  great 
personages  of  much  later  years;  for  the  originals  cannot  last,  and 
the  copies  cannot  but  lose  of  the  life  and  truth.  But  the  images 
of  men's  wits  and  knowledges  remain  in  books,  exempted  from 
the  wrong  of  time  and  capable  of  perpetual  renovation.  Neither 
are  they  fitly  to  be  called  images,  because  they  generate  still, 
and  cast  their  seeds  in  the  minds  of  others,  provoking  and  caus- 
ing infinite  actions  and  opinions  in  succeeding  ages.  So  that  if 
the  invention  of  the  ship  was  thought  so  noble,  which  carrieth 
riches  and  commodities  from  place  to  place,  and  consociateth  the 
most  remote  regions  in  participation  of  their  fruits,  how  much 
more  are  letters  to  be  magnified,  which  as  ships  pass  through 
the  vast  seas  of  time,  and  make  ages  so  distant  to  participate  of 
the  wisdom,  illuminations,  and  inventions,  the  one  of  the  other  ? 
Nay,  further,  we  see  some  of  the  philosophers  which  were  least 
divine,  and  most  immersed  in  the  senses,  and  denied  generally 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  yet  came  to  this  point,  that  what- 
soever motions  the  spirit  of  man  could  act  and  perform  without 
the  organs  of  the  body,  they  thought  might  remain  after  death, 
which  were  only  those  of  the  understanding  and  not  of  the  affec- 
tion; so  immortal  and  incorruptible  a  thing  did  knowledge  seem 
unto  them  to  be.  But  we,  that  know  by  divine  revelation  that 
not  only  the  understanding  but  the  affections  purified,  not  only 
the  spirit  but  the  body  changed,  shall  be  advanced  to  immortal- 
ity, do  disclaim  in  these  rudiments  of  the  senses.  But  it  must 
be  remembered,  both  in  this  last  point,  and  so  it  may  likewise 
be  needful  in  other  places,  that  in  probation  of  the  dignity  of 
knowledge  or  learning,  I  did  in  the  beginning  separate  divine 
testimony  from  human,  which  method  I  have  pursued,  and  so 
handled  them  both  apart. 

Nevertheless  I  do  not  pretend,  and  I  know  it  will  be  impossi- 
ble for  me,  by  any  pleading  of  mine,  to  reverse  the  judgment, 
either  of  ^Esop's  cock,  that  preferred  the  barleycorn  before  the 
gem;  or  of  Midas,  that  being  chosen  judge  between  Apollo, 
president  of  the  Muses,  and  Pan,  god  of  the  flocks,  judged  for 
plenty;  or  of  Paris,  that  judged  for  beauty  and  love  against  wis- 
dom and  power;  or  of  Agrippina,  occidat  matretn,  viodo  imperet, 
that  preferred  empire  with  any  condition  never  so  detestable;   or 


FRANCIS    BACON  365 

of  Ulysses,  qui  vetulajn  prcetulit  immortalitati,  being  a  figure  of 
those  which  prefer  custom  and  habit  before  all  excellency,  or  of 
a  number  of  the  like  popular  judgments.  For  these  things  must 
continue  as  they  have  been;  but  so  will  that  also  continue  where- 
upon learning  hath  ever  relied,  and  which  faileth  not:  Justificata 
est  sapientia  a  filiis  suis. 

From  the  (<  Proficience  and  Advancement  of 
Learning  Divine  and  Human. » 


THE   CENTRAL   THOUGHT   OF   THE   « NOVUM   ORGANUM» 

[It  is  within  bounds  to  say  that  what  is  most  distinctively  modern  in  science 
dates  from  the  publication  of  this  essay  from  the  "Novum  Organum.»] 

The  beginning  is  from  God ;  for  the  business  which  is  in  hand, 
having  the  character  of  good  so  strongly  impressed  upon  it, 
appears  manifestly  to  proceed  from  God,  who  is  the  author 
of  good,  and  the  Father  of  Lights.  Now  in  divine  operations 
even  the  smallest  beginnings  lead  of  a  certainty  to  their  end. 
And  as  it  was  said  of  spiritual  things,  <(  The  kingdom  of  God 
cometh  not  with  observation, w  so  is  it  in  all  the  greater  works 
of  Divine  Providence;  everything  glides  on  smoothly  and  noise- 
lessly, and  the  work  is  fairly  going  on  before  men  are  aware 
that  it  has  begun.  Nor  should  the  prophecy  of  Daniel  be  forgot- 
ten, touching  the  last  ages  of  the  world :  (<  Many  shall  go  to  and 
fro,  and  knowledge  shall  be  increased J)  ;  clearly  intimating  that 
the  thorough  passage  of  the  world  (which  now  by  so  many  dis- 
tant voyages  seems  to  be  accomplished,  or  in  course  of  accom- 
plishment), and  the  advancement  of  the  sciences,  are  destined  by 
fate,  that  is,  by  Divine  Providence,  to  meet  in  the  same  age. 

Next  comes  a  consideration  of  the  greatest  importance  as  an 
argument  of  hope;  I  mean  that  drawn  from  the  errors  of  past 
time,  and  of  the  ways  hitherto  trodden.  For  most  excellent  was 
the  censure  once  passed  upon  a  government  that  had  been  un- 
wisely administered.  <(  That  which  is  the  worst  thing  in  refer- 
ence to  the  past  ought  to  be  regarded  as  best  for  the  future. 
For  if  you  had  done  all  that  your  duty  demanded,  and  yet  your 
affairs  were  no  better,  you  would  not  have  even  a  hope  left  you 
that  further  improvement  is  possible.  But  now,  when  your  mis- 
fortunes are  owing,  not  to  the  force  of  circumstances,  but  to 
your  own  errors,  you  may  hope  that  by  dismissing  or  correcting 


366  FRANCIS    BACON 

these  errors,  a  great  change  may  be  made  for  the  better. B  In 
like  manner,  if  during  so  long  a  course  of  years  men  had  kept 
the  true  road  for  discovering  and  cultivating  sciences,  and  had 
yet  been  unable  to  make  further  progress  therein,  bold  doubtless 
and  rash  would  be  the  opinion  that  further  progress  is  possible. 
But  if  the  road  itself  has  been  mistaken,  and  men's  labor  spent 
on  unfit  objects,  it  follows  that  the  difficulty  has  its  rise  not  in 
things  themselves,  which  are  not  in  our  power,  but  in  the  human 
understanding,  and  the  use  and  application  thereof,  which  admits 
of  remedy  and  medicine.  It  will  be  of  great  use  therefore  to 
set  forth  what  these  errors  are;  for  as  many  impediments  as 
there  have  been  in  times  past  from  this  cause,  so  many  argu- 
ments are  there  of  hope  for  the  time  to  come.  And  although 
they  have  been  partly  touched  before,  I  think  fit  here  also,  in 
plain  and  simple  words,  to  represent  them. 

Those  who  have  handled  sciences  have  been  either  men  of 
experiment  or  men  of  dogmas.  The  men  of  experiment  are  like 
the  ant ;  they  only  collect  and  use :  the  reasoners  resemble  spiders, 
who  make  cobwebs  out  of  their  own  substance.  But  the  bee  takes 
a  middle  course;  it  gathers  its  material  from  the  flowers  of  the 
garden  and  of  the  field,  but  transforms  and  digests  it  by  a  power 
of  its  own.  Not  unlike  this  is  the  true  business  of  philosophy; 
for  it  neither  relies  solely  or  chiefly  on  the  powers  of  the  mind, 
nor  does  it  take  the  matter  which  it  gathers  from  natural  history 
and  mechanical  experiments  and  lay  it  up  in  the  memory  whole, 
as  it  finds  it;  but  lays  it  up  in  the  understanding  altered  and  di- 
gested. Therefore  from  a  closer  and  purer  league  between  these 
two  faculties,  the  experimental  and  the  rational  (such  as  has 
never  yet  been  made),  much  may  be  hoped. 

We  have  as  yet  no  natural  philosophy  that  is  pure;  all  is 
tainted  and  corrupted:  in  Aristotle's  school  by  logic;  in  Plato's  by 
natural  theology;  in  the  second  school  of  Platonists,  such  as  Pro- 
clus  and  others,  by  mathematics,  which  ought  only  to  give  defi- 
niteness  to  natural  philosophy,  not  to  generate  or  give  it  birth. 
From  a  natural  philosophy,  pure  and  unmixed,  better  things  are 
to  be  expected. 

No  one  has  yet  been  found  so  firm  of  mind  and  purpose  as 
resolutely  to  compel  himself  to  sweep  away  all  theories  and  com- 
mon notions,  and  to  apply  the  understanding,  thus  made  fair  and 
even,  to  a  fresh  examination  of  particulars.  Thus  it  happens  that 
human  knowledge,  as  we  have  it,  is  a  mere  medley  and  ill-digested 


FRANCIS  BACON  367 

mass,  made  up  of  much  credulity  and  much  accident,  and  alsc  of 
the  childish  notions  which  we  at  first  imbibed. 

Now  if  any  one  of  ripe  age,  unimpaired  senses,  and  well-purged 
mind,  apply  himself  anew  to  experience  and  particulars,  better 
hopes  may  be  entertained  of  that  man.  In  which  point  I  prom- 
ise to  myself  a  like  fortune  to  that  of  Alexander  the  Great;  and 
let  no  man  tax  me  with  vanity  till  he  have  heard  the  end,  for 
the  thing  which  I  mean  tends  to  the  putting  off  of  all  vanity. 
For  of  Alexander  and  his  deeds  yEschines  spake  thus:  <(  Assuredly 
we  do  not  live  the  life  of  mortal  men ;  but  to  this  end  were  we 
born,  that  in  after  ages  wonders  might  be  told  of  us >} ;  as  if 
what  Alexander  had  done  seemed  to  him  miraculous.  But  in  the 
next  age  Titus  Livius  took  a  better  and  a  deeper  view  of  the 
matter,  saying  in  effect,  that  Alexander  (<  had  done  no  more  than 
take  courage  to  despise  vain  apprehensions.  *  And  a  like  judgment, 
I  suppose,  may  be  passed  on  myself  in  future  ages:  that  I  did 
no  great  things,  but  simply  made  less  account  of  things  that  were 
accounted  great.  In  the  meanwhile,  as  I  have  already  said,  there 
is  no  hope  except  in  a  new  birth  of  science,  that  is,  in  raising  it 
regularly  up  from  experience  and  building  it  afresh;  which  no 
one  (I  think)  will  say  has  yet  been  done  or  thought  of. 

Now  for  the  grounds  of  experience  —  since  to  experience  we 
must  come  —  we  have  as  yet  had  either  none  or  very  weak  ones ; 
no  search  has  been  made  to  collect  a  store  of  particular  observa- 
tions sufficient  either  in  number,  or  in  kind,  or  in  certainty,  to 
inform  the  understanding,  or  in  any  way  adequate.  On  the  con- 
trary, men  of  learning,  but  easy  withal  and  idle,  have  taken  for 
the  construction  or  for  the  confirmation  of  their  philosophy  cer- 
tain rumors  and  vague  fames  or  airs  of  experience,  and  allowed 
to  these  the  weight  of  lawful  evidence.  And  just  as  if  some 
kingdom  or  state  were  to  direct  its  counsels  and  affairs  not  by 
letters  and  reports  from  embassadors  and  trustworthy  messengers, 
but  by  the  gossip  of  the  streets,  such  exactly  is  the  system  of 
management  introduced  into  philosophy  with  relation  to  experi- 
ence. Nothing  duly  investigated,  nothing  verified,  nothing  counted, 
weighed,  or  measured,  is  to  be  found  in  natural  history;  and 
what  in  observation  is  loose  and  vague  is  in  information  decep- 
tive and  treacherous.  And  if  any  one  thinks  that  this  is  a 
strange  thing  to  say,  and  something  like  an  unjust  complaint, 
seeing  that  Aristotle,  himself  so  great  a  man,  and  supported  by 
the  wealth  of  so  great  a  king,  has  composed  so  accurate  a  history 


368  FRANCIS   BACON 

of  animals;  and  that  others  with  greater  diligence,  though  less 
pretense,  have  made  many  additions;  while  others,  again,  have 
compiled  copious  histories  and  descriptions  of  metals,  plants,  and 
fossils;  it  seems  that  he  does  not  rightly  apprehend  what  it  is 
that  we  are  now  about.  For  a  natural  history  which  is  composed 
for  its  own  sake  is  not  like  one  that  is  collected  to  supply  the 
understanding  with  information  for  the  building  up  of  philoso- 
phy. They  differ  in  many  ways,  but  especially  in  this, —  that  the 
former  contains  the  variety  of  natural  species  only,  and  not  ex- 
periments of  the  mechanical  arts.  For  even  as  in  the  business 
of  life  a  man's  disposition  and  the  secret  workings  of  his  mind 
and  affections  are  better  discovered  when  he  is  in  trouble  than 
at  other  times,  so  likewise  the  secrets  of  nature  reveal  them- 
selves more  readily  under  the  vexations  of  art  than  when  they 
go  their  own  way.  Good  hopes  may  therefore  be  conceived  of 
natural  philosophy,  when  natural  history,  which  is  the  basis  and 
foundation  of  it,  has  been  drawn  up  on  a  better  plan;  but  not 
till  then. 

Again,  even  in  the  great  plenty  of  mechanical  experiments, 
there  is  yet  a  great  scarcity  of  those  which  are  of  most  use  for 
the  information  of  the  understanding.  For  the  mechanic,  not 
troubling  himself  with  the  investigation  of  truth,  confines  his  at- 
tention to  those  things  which  bear  upon  his  particular  work,  and 
will  not  either  raise  his  mind  or  stretch  out  his  hand  for  any- 
thing else.  But  then  only  will  there  be  good  ground  of  hope  for 
the  further  advance  of  knowledge,  when  there  shall  be  received 
and  gathered  together  into  natural  history  a  variety  of  experi- 
ments, which  are  of  no  use  in  themselves,  but  simply  serve  to 
discover  causes  and  axioms;  which  I  call  Experimenta  lucifera, 
experiments  of  light,  to  distinguish  them  from  those  which  I  call 
fructifera,  experiments  of  fruit. 

Now  experiments  of  this  kind  have  one  admirable  property 
and  condition:  they  never  miss  or  fail.  For  since  they  are  ap- 
plied, not  for  the  purpose  of  producing  any  particular  effect,  but 
only  of  discovering  the  natural  cause  of  some  effect,  they  answer 
the  end  equally  well  whichever  way  they  turn  out;  for  they  set- 
tle the  question. 

But  not  only  is  a  greater  abundance  of  experiments  to  be 
sought  for  and  procured,  and  that  too  of  a  different  kind  from 
those  hitherto  tried,  an  entirely  different  method,  order,  and  proc- 
ess   for    carrying    on    and    advancing    experience    must    also    be 


FRANCIS   BACON  369 

introduced.  For  experience,  when  it  wanders  in  its  own  track, 
is,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  mere  groping  in  the  dark,  and 
confounds  men  rather  than  instructs  them.  But  when  it  shall 
proceed  in  accordance  with  a  fixed  law,  in  regular  order,  and 
without  interruption,  then  may  better  things  be  hoped  of  knowl- 
edge. 

But  even  after  such  a  store  of  natural  history  and  experience 
as  is  required  for  the  work  of  the  understanding,  or  of  philoso- 
phy, shall  be  ready  at  hand,  still  the  understanding  is  by  no 
means  competent  to  deal  with  it  offhand  and  by  memory  alone; 
no  more  than  if  a  man  should  hope  by  force  of  memory  to  re- 
tain and  make  himself  master  of  the  computation  of  an  epheme- 
ris.  And  yet  hitherto  more  has  been  done  in  matter  of  invention 
by  thinking  than  by  writing;  and  experience  has  not  yet  learned 
her  letters.  Now  no  course  of  invention  can  be  satisfactory  un- 
less it  be  carried  on  in  writing.  But  when  this  is  brought  into 
use,  and  experience  has  been  taught  to  read  and  write,  better 
things  may  be  hoped. 

Moreover,  since  there  is  so  great  a  number  and  army  of  par- 
ticulars, and  that  army  so  scattered  and  dispersed  as  to  distract 
and  confound  the  understanding,  little  is  to  be  hoped  for  from 
the  skirmishings  and  slight  attacks  and  desultory  movements  of 
the  intellect,  unless  all  the  particulars  which  pertain  to  the  sub- 
ject of  inquiry  shall,  by  means  of  Tables  of  Discovery,  apt,  well 
arranged,  and  as  it  were  animate,  be  drawn  up  and  marshaled; 
and  the  mind  be  set  to  work  upon  the  helps  duly  prepared  and 
digested  which  these  tables  supply. 

But  after  this  store  of  particulars  has  been  set  out  duly  and 
in  order  before  our  eyes,  we  are  not  to  pass  at  once  to  the  in- 
vestigation and  discovery  of  new  particular  works;  or  at  any  rate 
if  we  do  so  we  must  not  stop  there.  For  although  I  do  not 
deny  that  when  all  the  experiments  of  all  the  arts  shall  have 
been  collected  and  digested,  and  brought  within  one  man's 
knowledge  and  judgment,  the  mere  transferring  of  the  experi- 
ments of  one  art  to  others  may  lead,  by  means  of  that  experi- 
ence which  I  term  literate,  to  the  discovery  of  many  new  things 
of  service  to  the  life  and  state  of  man,  yet  it  is  no  great  matter 
that  can  be  hoped  from  that;  but  from  the  new  light  of  axioms, 
which,  having  been  educed  from  those  particulars  by  a  certain 
method  and  rule,  shall  in  their  turn  point  out  the  way  again  to 
new  particulars,  greater  things  may  be  looked  for.  For  our  road 
1 — 24 


370  FRANCIS    BACON 

does  not  lie  on  a  level,  but  ascends  and  descends;  first  ascend- 
ing to  axioms,  then  descending  to  works. 

The  understanding  must  not  however  be  allowed  to  jump  and 
fly  from  particulars  to  remote  axioms  and  of  almost  the  highest 
generality  (such  as  the  first  principles,  as  they  are  called,  of  arts 
and  things),  and,  taking  stand  upon  them  as  truths  that  cannot 
be  shaken,  proceed  to  prove  and  frame  the  middle  axioms  by  ref- 
erence to  them ;  which  has  been  the  practice  hitherto ;  the  under- 
standing being  not  only  carried  that  way  by  a  natural  impulse, 
but  also  by  the  use  of  syllogistic  demonstration  trained  and  inured 
to  it.  But  then,  and  then  only,  may  we  hope  well  of  the  sci- 
ences, when  in  a  just  scale  of  ascent,  and  by  successive  steps  not 
interrupted  or  broken,  we  rise  from  particulars  to  lesser  axioms; 
and  then  to  middle  axioms,  one  above  the  other;  and  last  of  all 
to  the  most  general.  For  the  lowest  axioms  differ  but  slightly 
from  bare  experience,  while  the  highest  and  most  general  (which 
we  now  have)  are  notional  and  abstract  and  without  solidity. 
But  the  middle  are  the  true  and  solid  and  living  axioms,  on 
which  depend  the  affairs  and  fortunes  of  men;  and  above  them 
again.  Last  of  all,  those  which  are  indeed  the  most  general;  such 
I  mean  as  are  not  abstract,  but  of  which  those  intermediate 
axioms  are  really  limitations. 

The  understanding  must  not  therefore  be  supplied  with  wings, 
but  rather  hung  with  weights  to  keep  it  from  leaping  and  flying. 
Now  this  has  never  yet  been  done;  when  it  is  done,  we  may 
entertain  better  hopes  of  the  sciences. 

In  establishing  axioms,  another  form  of  induction  must  be 
devised  than  has  hitherto  been  employed;  and  it  must  be  used 
for  proving  and  discovering  not  first  principles  (as  they  are 
called)  only,  but  also  the  lesser  axioms,  and  the  middle,  and  in- 
deed all.  For  the  induction  which  proceeds  by  simple  enumera- 
tion is  childish;  its  conclusions  are  precarious  and  exposed  to 
peril  from  a  contradictory  instance;  and  it  generally  decides  on 
too  small  a  number  of  facts,  and  on  those  only  which  are  at 
hand.  But  the  induction  which  is  to  be  available  for  the  discov- 
ery and  demonstration  of  sciences  and  arts  must  analyze  nature 
by  proper  rejections  and  exclusions;  and  then,  after  a  sufficient 
number  of  negatives,  come  to  a  conclusion  on  the  affirmative 
instances:  which  has  not  yet  been  done  or  even  attempted,  save 
only  by  Plato,  who  does  indeed  employ  this  form  of  induction  to 
a   certain    extent    for    the    purpose    of    discussing    definitions    and 


FRANCIS    BACON  371 

ideas.  But  in  order  to  furnish  this  induction  or  demonstration 
well  and  duly  for  its  work,  very  many  things  are  to  be  provided 
which  no  mortal  has  yet  thought  of,  insomuch  that  greater  labor 
will  have  to  be  spent  in  it  than  has  hitherto  been  spent  on  the 
syllogism.  And  this  induction  must  be  used  not  only  to  discover 
axioms,  but  also  in  the  formation  of  notions.  And  it  is  in  this 
induction  that  our  chief  hope  lies. 


372 


WALTER    BAGEHOT 

(1826-1877) 

Salter  Bagehot,  a  celebrated  English  essayist  and  journalist, 
was  born  at  Langport  in  Somersetshire,  February  3d,  1826. 
After  graduating  at  the  University  of  London  in  1848,  and 
completing  his  law  studies,  he  became  editor  of  the  Economist,  in 
which  he  developed  the  talent  for  economic  essay-writing  which  made 
him  famous.  He  was  a  student  of  literature  and  of  natural  science, 
as  well  as  of  political  economy.  The  essays  which  first  gained  him 
general  popularity  are  those  of  his  "Physics  and  Politics  w  (1872), 
which  illustrate  the  philosophical  theories  of  English  imperialism.  He 
died  in  Somersetshire,  March  24th,  1877. 


THE   NATURAL   MIND    IN   MAN 

We  catch  a  first  glimpse  of  patriarchal  man,  not  with  any 
industrial  relics  of  a  primitive  civilization,  but  with  some 
gradually  learned  knowledge  of  the  simpler  arts,  with  some 
tamed  animals  and  some  little  knowledge  of  the  course  of  nature, 
as  far  as  it  tells  upon  the  seasons  and  affects  the  condition  of 
simple  tribes.  This  is  what,  according  to  ethnology,  we  should 
expect  the  first  historic  man  to  be,  and  this  in  fact  is  what  we 
find  him.  But  what  was  his  mind;  how  are  we  to  describe  that? 
I  believe  the  general  description  in  which  Sir  John  Lubbock 
sums  up  his  estimate  of  the  savage  mind  suits  the  patriarchal 
mind.  (<  Savages, B  he  says,  "unite  the  character  of  childhood 
with  the  passions  and  strength  of  men."  And  if  we  open  the 
first  record  of  the  pagan  world, —  the  poems  of  Homer, —  how 
much  do  we  find  that  suits  this  description  better  than  any  other. 
Civilization  has  indeed  already  gone  forward  ages  beyond  the 
time  at  which  any  such  description  is  complete.  Man,  in  Homer, 
is  as  good  at  oratory,  Mr.  Gladstone  seems  to  say,  as  he  has  ever 
been,  and,  much  as  that  means,  other  and  better  things  might  be 
added  to  it.  But  after  all,  how  much  of  the  (<  splendid  savage  * 
there  is  in  Achilles,  and  how  much  of  the  "spoiled  child  sulking 


WALTER    BAGEHOT  373 

in  his  tent."  Impressibility  and  excitability  are  the  main  charac- 
teristics of  the  oldest  Greek  history,  and  if  we  turn  to  the  East, 
the  (<  simple  and  violent w  world,  as  Mr.  Kinglake  calls  it,  of  the 
first  times  meets  us  every  moment. 

And  this  is  precisely  what  we  should  expect.  An  <(  inherited 
drill,"  science  says,  "makes  modern  nations  what  they  are;  their 
born  structure  bears  the  trace  of  the  laws  of  their  father n ;  but 
the  ancient  nations  came  into  no  such  inheritance;  they  were  the 
descendants  of  people  who  did  what  was  right  in  their  own  eyes; 
they  were  born  to  no  tutored  habits,  no  preservative  bonds,  and 
therefore  they  were  at  the  mercy  of  every  impulse,  and  blown  by 
every  passion. 

The  condition  of  the  primitive  man,  if  we  conceive  of  him 
rightly,  is,  in  several  respects,  different  from  any  we  know.  We 
unconsciously  assume  around  us  the  existence  of  a  great  miscel- 
laneous social  machine  working  to  our  hands,  and  not  only  sup- 
plying our  wants,  but  even  telling  and  deciding  when  those  wants 
shall  come.  No  one  can  now  without  difficulty  conceive  how 
people  got  on  before  there  were  clocks  and  watches;  as  Sir  G. 
Lewis  said,  (<  it  takes  a  vigorous  effort  of  the  imagination 9  to 
realize  a  period  when  it  was  a  serious  difficulty  to  know  the  hour 
of  day.  And  much  more  is  it  difficult  to  fancy  the  unstable 
minds  of  such  men  as  neither  knew  nature,  which  is  the  clock- 
work of  material  civilization,  nor  possessed  a  polity,  which  is  a 
kind  of  clockwork  to  moral  civilization.  They  never  could  have 
known  what  to  expect;  the  whole  habit  of  steady  but  varied  an- 
ticipation, which  makes  our  minds  what  they  are,  must  have  been 
wholly  foreign  to  theirs. 

Again,  I  at  least  cannot  call  up  to  myself  the  loose  concep- 
tions (as  they  must  have  been)  of  morals  which  then  existed.  If 
we  set  aside  all  the  element  derived  from  law  and  polity  which 
runs  through  our  current  moral  notions,  I  hardly  know  what  we 
shall  have  left.  The  residuum  was  somehow  and  in  some  vague 
way  intelligible  to  the  antepolitical  man,  but  it  must  have  been 
uncertain,  wavering,  and  unfit  to  be  depended  upon.  In  the  best 
cases  it  existed  much  as  the  vague  feeling  of  beauty  now  exists 
in  minds  sensitive  but  untaught:  a  still  small  voice  of  uncertain 
meaning  —  an  unknown  something  modifying  everything  else,  and 
higher  than  anything  else,  yet  in  form  so  indistinct  that  when 
you  looked  for  it,  it  was  gone;  or  if  this  be  thought  the  delicate 
fiction  of  a  later  fancy,  then  morality  was  at  least  to  be  found  in 


374  WALTER   BAGEHOT 

the  wild  spasms  of  w  wild  justice,"  half  punishment,  half  outrage; 
but  anyhow,  being  unfixed  by  steady  law,  it  was  intermittent, 
vague,  and  hard  for  us  to  imagine.  Everybody  who  has  studied 
mathematics  knows  how  many  shadowy  difficulties  he  seemed  to 
have  before  he  understood  the  problem,  and  how  impossible  it 
was,  when  once  the  demonstration  had  flashed  upon  him,  ever  to 
comprehend  those  indistinct  difficulties  again,  or  to  call  up  the 
mental  confusion  that  admitted  them.  So  in  these  days,  when 
we  cannot  by  any  effort  drive  out  of  our  minds  the  notion  of 
law,  we  cannot  imagine  the  mind  of  one  who  had  never  known 
it,  and  who  could  not  by  any  effort  have  conceived  it. 

Again,  the  primitive  man  could  not  have  imagined  what  we 
mean  by  a  nation.  We,  on  the  other  hand,  cannot  imagine  those 
to  whom  it  is  a  difficulty ;  (<  we  know  what  it  is  when  you  do  not 
ask  us,w  but  we  cannot  very  quickly  explain  or  define  it.  But 
so  much  as  this  is  plain,  a  nation  means  a  like  body  of  men,  be- 
cause of  that  likeness  capable  of  acting  together,  and  because  of 
that  likeness  inclined  to  obey  similar  rules;  and  even  this  Ho- 
mer's Cyclops  —  used  only  to  sparse  human  beings  —  could  not 
have  conceived. 

To  sum  up:  law  —  rigid,  definite,  concise  law  —  is  the  primary 
want  of  early  mankind;  that  which  they  need  above  anything 
else,  that  which  is  requisite  before  they  can  gain  anything  else. 
But  it  is  their  greatest  difficulty,  as  well  as  their  first  requisite; 
the  thing  most  out  of  their  reach,  as  well  as  that  most  beneficial 
to  them  if  they  reach  it.  In  later  ages  many  races  have  gained 
much  of  this  discipline  quickly,  though  painfully;  a  loose  set  of 
scattered  clans  has  been  often  and  often  forced  to  substantial 
settlement  by  a  rigid  conqueror;  the  Romans  did  half  the  work 
for  above  half  Europe.  But  where  could  the  first  ages  find  Ro- 
mans or  a  conqueror  ?  Men  conquer  by  the  power  of  govern- 
ment, and  it  was  exactly  government  which  then  was  not.  The 
first  ascent  of  civilization  was  at  a  steep  gradient,  though  when 
now  we  look  down  upon  it,  it  seems  almost  nothing. 

From  essays  on  <(  Fhysics  and  Politics. » 


375 


ALEXANDER    BAIN 

( i 8 i 8-) 

[lexander  Bain,  one  of  the  best  representatives  of  the  later 
school  of  Scotch  scientific  essayists,  was  born  at  Aberdeen 
in  1818.  He  became  Examiner  in  Logic  and  Moral  Philoso- 
phy for  the  University  of  London  in  1857,  and  in  i860  Professor  of 
Logic  in  Aberdeen  University,  of  which  in  188 1  he  became  Lord  Rec- 
tor. His  style  is  so  clear  and  his  language  so  free  from  technicalities 
that  his  scientific  essays  have  been  widely  popular  in  the  United 
States,  as  well  as  in  England.  He  has  written  much  on  the  same 
general  lines  with  Herbert  Spencer;  but  he  is  an  original  thinker  of 
great  power,  and  it  cannot  be  said  with  justice  that  he  has  followed 
Spencer  or  any  one  else. 


WHAT    IT   COSTS   TO    FEEL  AND   THINK 

Every  throb  of  pleasure  costs  something  to  the  physical  system, 
and  two  throbs  cost  twice  as  much  as  one.  If  we  cannot 
fix  a  precise  equivalent,  it  is  not  because  the  relation  is  not 
definite,  but  from  the  difficulties  of  reducing  degrees  of  pleasure 
to  a  recognized  standard.  Of  this,  however,  there  can  be  no  rea- 
sonable doubt  —  namely,  that  a  large  amount  of  pleasure  supposes 
a  correspondingly  large  expenditure  of  blood  and  nerve  tissue, 
to  the  stinting,  perhaps,  of  the  active  energies  and  the  intellec- 
tual processes.  It  is  a  matter  of  practical  moment  to  ascertain 
what  pleasures  cost  least,  for  there  are  thrifty  and  unthrifty  modes 
of  spending  our  brain  and  heart's  blood.  Experience  probably 
justifies  us  in  saying  that  the  narcotic  stimulants  are,  in  general, 
a  more  extravagant  expenditure  than  the  stimulation  of  food, 
society,  and  fine  art.  One  of  the  safest  of  delights,  if  not  very 
acute,  is  the  delight  of  abounding  physical  vigor;  for,  from  the 
very  supposition,  the  supply  to  the  brain  is  not  such  as  to  inter- 
fere with  the  general  interests  of  the  system.  But  the  theory 
of  pleasure  is  incomplete  without  the  theory  of  pain. 


376  ALEXANDER  BAIN 

As  a  rule,  pain  is  a  more  costly  experience  than  pleasure, 
although  sometimes  economical  as  a  check  to  the  spendthrift 
pleasures.  Pain  is  physically  accompanied  by  an  excess  of  blood 
in  the  brain  from  at  least  two  causes  —  extreme  intensity  of 
nervous  action  and  conflicting  currents,  both  being  sources  of 
waste.  The  sleeplessness  of  the  pained  condition  means  that  the 
circulation  is  never  allowed  to  subside  from  the  brain;  the  irrita- 
tion maintains  energetic  currents,  which  bring  the  blood  copi- 
ously to  the  parts  affected. 

There  is  a  possibility  of  excitement,  of  considerable  amount, 
without  either  pleasure  or  pain;  the  cost  here  is  simply  as  the 
excitement:  mere  surprises  may  be  of  this  nature.  Such  excite- 
ment has  no  value,  except  intellectually ;  it  may  detain  the  thoughts, 
and  impress  the  memory,  but  it  is  not  a  final  end  of  our  being, 
as  pleasure  is;  and  it  does  not  waste  power  to  the  extent  that 
pain  does.  The  ideally  best  condition  is  a  moderate  surplus  of 
pleasure  —  a  gentle  glow,  not  rising  into  brilliancy  or  intensity, 
except  at  considerable  intervals  (say  a  small  portion  of  every  day), 
falling  down  frequently  to  indifference,  but  seldom  sinking  into 
pain. 

Attendant  on  strong  feeling,  especially  in  constitutions  young 
or  robust,  there  is  usually  a  great  amount  of  mere  bodily  vehe- 
mence, as  gesticulation,  play  of  countenance,  of  voice,  and  so  on. 
This  counts  as  muscular  work,  and  is  an  addition  to  the  brain- 
work.  Properly  speaking,  the  cerebral  currents  discharge  them- 
selves in  movements,  and  are  modified  according  to  the  scope 
given  to  those  movements.  Resistance  to  the  movements  is  lia- 
ble to  increase  the  conscious  activity  of  the  brain,  although  a  con- 
tinuing resistance  may  suppress  the  entire  wave. 

Next  as  to  the  will,  or  our  voluntary  labors  and  pursuits  for 
the  great  ends  of  obtaining  pleasure  and  warding  off  pain.  This 
part  of  our  system  is  a  compound  experience  of  feeling  and 
movement;  the  properly  mental  fact  being  included  under  feeling 
—  that  is,  pleasure  and  pain,  present  or  imagined.  When  our 
voluntary  endeavors  are  successful,  a  distinct  throb  of  pleasure  is 
the  result,  which  counts  among  our  valuable  enjoyments:  when 
they  fail,  a  painful  and  depressing  state  ensues.  The  more  com- 
plicated operations  of  the  will,  as  in  adjusting  many  opposite  in- 
terests, bring  in  the  element  of  conflict,  which  is  always  painful 
and  wasting.      Two  strong  stimulants  pointing  opposite  ways,  as 


ALEXANDER   BAIN  377 

when  a  miser  has  to  pay  a  high  fee  to  the  surgeon  that  saves 
his  eyesight,  occasion  a  fierce  struggle  and  severe  draft  upon  the 
physical  supports  of  the  feelings. 

Although  the  processes  of  feeling  all  involve  a  manifest,  and 
it  may  be  a  serious,  expenditure  of  physical  power,  which  of 
course  is  lost  to  the  purely  physical  functions;  and  although  the 
extreme  degrees  of  pleasure,  of  pain,  or  of  neutral  excitement, 
must  be  adverse  to  the  general  vigor,  yet  the  presumption  is, 
that  we  can  afford  a  certain  moderate  share  of  all  these  without 
too  great  inroads  on  the  other  interests.  It  is  the  thinking  or 
intellectual  part  of  us  that  involves  the  heaviest  item  of  expendi- 
ture in  the  physico-mental  department.  Anything  like  a  great  or 
general  cultivation  of  the  powers  of  thought,  or  any  occupation 
that  severely  and  continuously  brings  them  into  play,  will  induce 
such  a  preponderance  of  cerebral  activity,  in  oxidation  and  in 
nerve  currents,  as  to  disturb  the  balance  of  life,  and  to  require 
special  arrangements  for  redeeming  that  disturbance.  This  is 
fully  verified  by  all  we  know  of  the  tendency  of  intellectual  ap- 
plication to  exhaust  the  physical  powers,  and  to  bring  on  early 
decay. 

A  careful  analysis  of  the  operations  of  the  intellect  enables 
us  to  distinguish  the  kind  of  exercises  that  involve  the  great- 
est expenditure,  from  the  extent  and  the  intensity  of  the  cere- 
bral occupation.  I  can  but  make  a  rapid  selection  of  leading 
points: 

First.  The  mere  exercise  of  the  senses,  in  the  way  of  atten- 
tion, with  a  view  to  watch,  to  discriminate,  to  identify,  belongs 
to  the  intellectual  function,  and  exhausts  the  powers  according  as 
it  is  long  continued,  and  according  to  the  delicacy  of  the  opera- 
tion; the  meaning  of  delicacy  being  that  an  exaggerated  activity 
of  the  organ  is  needed  to  make  the  required  discernment.  To 
be  all  day  on  the  qui  vive  for  some  very  slight  and  barely  per- 
ceptible indications  to  the  eye  or  the  ear,  as  in  catching  an  in- 
distinct speaker,  is  an  exhausting  labor  of  attention. 

Second.  The  work  of  acquisition  is  necessarily  a  process  of 
great  nervous  expenditure.  Unintentional  imitation  costs  least, 
because  there  is  no  forcing  of  reluctant  attention.  But  a  course 
of  extensive  and  various  acquisitions  cannot  be  maintained  with- 
out a  large  supply  of  blood  to  cement  all  the  multifarious  con- 
nections of  the  nerve  fibres,  constituting  the  physical  side  of 
acquisition.     An  abated  support  of  other  mental  functions  as  well 


378  ALEXANDER    BAIN 

as  of  the  purely  physical  functions,  must  accompany  a  life  de- 
voted to  mental  improvement,  whether  arts,  languages,  sciences, 
moral  restraints,  or  other  culture. 

Of  special  acquisitions,  languages  are  the  most  apparently  vol- 
uminous; but  the  memory  for  visible  or  pictorial  aspects,  if  very 
high,  as  in  the  painter  and  the  picturesque  poet,  makes  a  prodi- 
gious demand  upon  the  plastic  combinations  of  the  brain. 

The  acquisition  of  science  is  severe,  rather  than  multifarious; 
it  glories  in  comprehending  much  in  little,  but  that  little  is  made 
up  of  painful  abstract  elements,  every  one  of  which,  in  the  last 
resort,  must  have  at  its  beck  a  host  of  explanatory  particulars: 
so  that,  after  all,  the  burden  lies  in  the  multitude.  If  science  is 
easy  to  a  select  number  of  minds,  it  is  because  there  is  a  large 
spontaneous  determination  of  force  to  the  cerebral  elements  that 
support  it;  which  force  is  supplied  by  the  limited  common  fund, 
and  leaves  so  much  the  less  for  other  uses. 

If  we  advert  to  the  moral  acquisitions  and  habits  in  a  well- 
regulated  mind,  we  must  admit  the  need  of  a  large  expenditure 
to  build  up  the  fabric.  The  carefully  poised  estimate  of  good 
and  evil  for  self,  the  ever-present  sense  of  the  interests  of  others, 
and  the  ready  obedience  to  all  the  special  ordinances  that  make 
up  the  morality  of  the  time,  however  truly  expressed  in  terms 
of  high  and  abstract  spirituality,  have  their  counterpart  in  the 
physical  organism;  they  have  used  up  a  large  and  definite  amount 
of  nutriment,  and,  had  they  been  less  developed,  there  would 
have  been  a  gain  of  power  to  some  other  department,  mental  or 
physical. 

Refraining  from  further  detail  on  this  head,  I  close  the  illus- 
tration by  a  brief  reference  to  one  other  aspect  of  mental  ex- 
penditure, namely,  the  department  of  intellectual  production, 
execution,  or  creativeness,  to  which  in  the  end  our  acquired 
powers  are  ministerial.  Of  course,  the  greater  the  mere  continu- 
ance or  amount  of  intellectual  labor  in  business,  speculation,  fine 
art,  or  anything  else,  the  greater  the  demand  on  the  physique. 
But  amount  is  not  all.  There  are  notorious  differences  of  sever- 
ity or  laboriousness,  which,  when  closely  examined,  are  summed 
up  in  one  comprehensive  statement,  namely,  the  number,  the  va- 
riety, and  the  conflicting  nature  of  the  conditions  that  have  to 
be  fulfilled.  By  this  we  explain  the  difficulty  of  work,  the  toil 
of  invention,  the  harassment  of  adaptation,  the  worry  of  leader- 
ship, the  responsibility  of  high  office,  the  severity  of  a  lofty  ideal, 


ALEXANDER    BAIN  379 

the  distraction  of  numerous  sympathies,  the  meritoriousness  of 
sound  judgment,  the  arduousness  of  any  great  virtue.  The  physi- 
cal facts  underlying  the  mental  fact  are  a  widespread  agitation 
of  the  cerebral  currents,  a  tumultuous  conflict,  a  consumption  of 
energy. 

It  is  this  compliance  with  numerous  and  opposing  conditions 
that  obtains  the  most  scanty  justice  in  our  appreciation  of  char- 
acter. The  unknown  amount  of  painful  suppression  that  a  cau- 
tious thinker,  a  careful  writer,  or  an  artist  of  fine  taste,  has  gone 
through,  represents  a  great  physico-mental  expenditure.  The  re- 
gard to  evidence  is  a  heavy  drag  on  the  wings  of  speculative 
daring.  The  greater  the  number  of  interests  that  a  political 
schemer  can  throw  overboard,  the  easier  his  work  of  construction. 
The  absence  of  restraints  —  of  severe  conditions  —  in  fine  art  al- 
lows a  flush  and  ebullience,  an  opulence  of  production,  that  is 
often  called  the  highest  genius.  The  Shakespearian  profusion  of 
images  would  have  been  reduced  to  at  least  one-half  by  the  self- 
imposed  restraints  of  Pope,  Gray,  or  Tennyson.  So,  reckless  as- 
sertion is  fuel  to  eloquence.  A  man  of  ordinary  fairness  of  mind 
would  be  no  match  for  the  wit  and  epigram  of   Swift. 

And  again.  The  incompatibility  of  diverse  attributes,  even 
in  minds  of  the  largest  compass  (which  supposes  equally  large 
physical  resources),  belongs  to  the  same  fundamental  law.  A 
great  mind  may  be  great  in  many  things,  because  the  same  kind 
of  power  may  have  numerous  applications.  The  scientific  mind 
of  a  high  order  is  also  the  practical  mind;  it  is  the  essence  of 
reason  in  every  mode  of  its  manifestation  —  the  true  philosopher 
in  conduct  as  well  as  in  knowledge.  On  such  a  mind,  also,  a 
certain  amount  of  artistic  culture  may  be  superinduced;  its  pow- 
ers of  acquisition  may  be  extended  so  far.  But  the  spontaneous, 
exuberant,  imaginative  flow,  the  artistic  nature  at  the  core,  never 
was, —  it  cannot  be,  included  in  the  same  individual.  Aristotle 
could  not  be  also  a  tragic  poet,  nor  Newton  a  third-rate  portrait 
painter.  The  cost  of  one  of  the  two  modes  of  intellectual  great- 
ness is  all  that  can  be  borne  by  the  most  largely  endowed  per- 
sonality; any  appearances  to  the  contrary  are  hollow  and  delu- 
sive. 

Other  instances  could  be  given.  Great  activity  and  great 
sensibility  are  extreme  phases,  each  using  a  large  amount  of 
power,  and  therefore  scarcely  to  be  coupled  in  the  same  system. 
The  active,  energetic  man,  loving  activity  for  its  own  sake,  mov- 


380  ALEXANDER   BAIN 

ing  in  every  direction,  wants  the  delicate  circumspection  of  an- 
other man  who  does  not  love  activity  for  its  own  sake,  but  is 
energetic  only  at  the  spur  of  his  special  ends. 

And  once  more.  Great  intellect  as  a  whole  is  not  readily 
united  with  a  large  emotional  nature.  The  incompatibility  is 
best  seen  by  inquiring  whether  men  of  overflowing  sociability  are 
deep  and  original  thinkers,  great  discoverers,  accurate  inquirers, 
great  organizers  in  affairs;  or  whether  their  greatness  is  not 
limited  to  the  spheres  where  feeling  performs  a  part  —  poetry, 
eloquence,  and  social  ascendency. 

From  the  appendix  to  his  essays  on  the 
<(  Conservation  of  Energy. » 


38i 


SIR    ROBERT   BALL 

(1840-) 

'ir  Robert  Stawell  Ball,  who  for  more  than  a  decade  held 
a  leading  place  in  English  reviews  as  a  popular  interpreter 
of  the  attractive  mysteries  of  astronomy,  was  born  in  Dub- 
lin, July  1  st,  1840.  Graduating  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  devot- 
ing himself  to  astronomy,  he  became  Royal  Astronomer  for  Ireland 
in  1874,  and  in  1892  Lowndean  Professor  of  Astronomy  at  Cambridge. 
Among  his  writings  are  (<  The  Story  of  the  Heavens,"  wStarland,w 
etc.,  beside  numerous  valuable  essays  as  yet  uncollected.  He  was 
knighted  in  1886. 


LIFE    IN   OTHER  WORLDS 

In  the  absence  of  any  definite  knowledge  as  to  the  composition 
of  the  atmospheres  by  which  the  planets  are  surrounded,  or 

as  to  the  climates  which  they  enjoy,  it  would  certainly  be 
idle  for  us  to  speculate  as  to  how  far  they  might  possibly  be 
tenanted  by  creatures  resembling  those  found  on  this  earth.  It 
would  also  be  impossible  for  us  to  form  any  conception  as  to  the 
biological  characteristics  of  creatures  which  would  be  adapted  for 
residence  on  the  several  planets.  There  is,  however,  one  merely 
mechanical  matter  which  may  be  usefully  mentioned,  inasmuch 
as  it  depends  on  considerations  which  admit  of  demonstration. 

We  are  able  to  weigh  the  several  planets.  Indeed,  the  prob- 
lem is  a  comparatively  easy  one,  when  applied  to  those  bodies 
which  are  attended  by  satellites,  inasmuch  as  the  movements  of 
the  satellites  contain  indications  of  the  weights  of  their  primaries. 
But  even  when  a  planet  has  no  satellites,  it  is  still  possible  for  an 
astronomer  to  find  the  weight  of  a  body  by  the  effect  which  its 
attraction  produces  on  other  planets.  But  the  weight  of  a  planet 
must  stand  in  important  relation  to  the  framework  of  the  organ- 
isms which  are  adapted  to  dwell  upon  it.  Let  me  try  to  make 
this  clear  by  a  few  illustrations. 

Suppose  that  a  planet,  while  still  retaining  the  same  size,  was 
to  be  greatly  increased  as  to  its  mass.     The  consequences  would 


3S2  SIR    ROBERT    BALL 

be  felt  very  seriously  by  all  organized  creatures.  The  most  im- 
mediate effect  would  be  to  increase  the  apparent  weight  of 
everything.  If,  for  instance,  a  globe  the  same  size  as  the  earth 
possessed  double  the  mass  of  the  earth,  the  effect  would  be  that 
the  weight  of  each  animal  on  the  heavier  globe  would  be  double 
that  on  the  earth.  A  horse  placed  on  the  heavy  globe  would  be 
subjected  to  a  load  which  would  oppress  him  as  greatly  as  if 
while  standing  on  our  earth,  as  at  present  constituted,  he  bore  a 
weight  of  lead  on  his  back  which  amounted  to  as  many  pounds 
as  the  animal  itself.  Each  leg  of  an  elephant  would  be  called 
upon  to  sustain  just  double  the  not  inconsiderable  thrust  which 
at  present  such  a  pillar  has  to  bear.  A  bird  which  soars  here 
with  ease  and  grace  would  find  that  the  difficulty  of  such  move- 
ments was  greatly  increased,  even  if  they  were  not  wholly  im- 
possible on  a  globe  of  equal  size  to  the  earth,  but  double  weight. 
It  would  seem  as  if  flying  animals  must  be  the  denizens  of  light 
globes,  rather  than  of  heavy  ones.    . 

It  is  also  easy  to  show  that  in  general,  other  things  being 
equal,  the  size  of  an  animal  should  tend  to  vary  in  an  inverse 
direction  to  that  of  the  mass  of  the  globe  on  which  it  dwells. 
At  first  it  might  be  supposed  that  big  animals  might  be  most 
appropriately  located  on  big  worlds,  and  small  animals  on  small 
worlds.  No  doubt  there  are  so  many  circumstances  to  be  con- 
sidered, of  which  we  are  in  almost  complete  ignorance,  that  any 
statements  of  this  kind  must  be  received  with  considerable  cau- 
tion. We  may,  however,  assert  with  some  confidence  that,  so  far 
as  our  knowledge  goes,  the  truth  lies  the  other  way.  It  is  the 
small  animals  which  are  adapted  for  the  larger  worlds;  it  is 
the  big  animals  which  are  adapted  for  the  smaller  worlds.  The 
proof  of  this  involves  an  interesting  point. 

The  argument  is  as  follows:  Suppose  that  an  animal  on  this 
earth,  as  it  is  at  present,  were  to  have  every  dimension  doubled. 
To  take  a  particular  instance,  conceive  the  existence  of  a  giant 
horse  which  was  twice  as  high  and  twice  as  long  in  every  fea- 
ture and  detail  as  an  ordinary  horse.  It  is  obvious  that  as  all 
three  dimensions  of  the  animal  are  doubled,  its  volume  and 
therefore  its  weight  would  be  increased  eightfold,  and  the  weight 
that  would  have  to  be  transmitted  down  each  of  the  four  legs 
would  be  increased  eightfold.  Each  leg  of  the  giant  horse  would, 
therefore,  have  to  possess  eight  times  the  weight-sustaining 
power  that  would  suffice  for  the  leg  of  the  ordinary  horse.     As 


SIR    ROBERT    BALL  '  383 

the  proportions  are  supposed  to  have  been  observed  throughout, 
the  leg  of  the  giant  horse  would  be  of  eourse  considerably 
stronger  than  that  of  the  ordinary  horse,  but  it  would  not  be  so 
much  stronger  as  to  enable  it  to  accomplish  the  task  it  would 
be  called  on  to  perform.  The  section  of  the  leg  of  the  giant 
horse  would  no  doubt  be  double  in  diameter  that  of  the  normal 
individual.  This  would  imply  that  the  area  of  the  section  was 
increased  fourfold.  But  we  have  seen  that  the  weight  trans- 
mitted was  increased  eightfold.  Study  the  effect  of  this  on  the 
horse's  hoof  in  contact  with  the  ground.  In  the  giant  horse  the 
area  of  the  surface  of  contact  would  be  four  times  as  great  as  in 
the  normal  horse.  As,  however,  the  weight  transmitted  is  eight 
times  as  great,  it  follows  that  this  wear  and  tear  on  each  square 
inch  of  the  foot,  and  this  is  the  proper  way  to  estimate  it,  would 
be  just  twice  as  destructive  in  the  giant  horse  as  it  would  be  in 
the  ordinary  animal.  If,  then,  as  we  may  well  suppose,  the  foot 
of  the  latter  is  just  adapted  for  the  work  which  it  has  to  do, 
then  the  foot  of  the  giant  horse  would  be  incapable  of  withstand- 
ing the  wear  and  tear  to  which  it  would  be  subjected.  It  follows 
that  an  effective  animal,  on  the  scale  we  have  suggested,  would 
be  an  impossibility  on  our  earth;  at  all  events,  when  the  mate- 
rials from  which  it  was  made  were  the  same  as  those  out  of 
which  our  animals  are  fashioned. 

Suppose  this  giant  horse,  instead  of  being  left  on  this  earth, 
were  transferred  to  another  globe,  which  only  exerted  half  the 
gravitating  effect  experienced  on  the  earth's  surface,  then  the 
effort  the  animal  would  have  to  make  in  supporting  its  own 
weight  would  only  be  half  that  which  it  has  to  put  forth  here. 
The  consequence  is  that  the  framework  of  the  giant  horse  would 
in  such  a  case  have  to  support  a  weight  which  was  not  more 
than  four  times  that  of  an  ordinary  horse  standing  on  the  earth. 
As  the  area  of  the  bases  of  support  in  the  large  animal  was 
fourfold  that  in  the  normal  horse,  it  would  follow  that,  area  for 
area,  there  would  be  a  pressure  transmitted  through  the  foot  of 
the  giant  horse  on  the  less  ponderous  globe  precisely  equal  to 
that  of  the  normal  horse  on  the  earth.  The  materials  of  which 
the  big  horse  is  built  ought,  therefore,  to  be  able  to  sustain  him 
effectively  when  he  was  placed  on  the  light  globe.  It,  therefore, 
appears  that,  so  far  as  gravitation  is  concerned,  the  big  horse 
would  be  better  adapted  for  the  light  globe,  and  the  small  horse 
for  the  heavy  one.     More  generally  we  may  assert  that,  regard- 


384  SIR  ROBERT   BALL 

ing  only  the  point  of  view  at  present  before  us,  the  limbs  of 
smaller  animals  would  be  better  adapted  for  vigorous  movement 
on  great  planets  than  would  those  of  large  creatures. 

It  is,  however,  proper  to  bear  in  mind  the  point  to  which 
attention  was,  so  far  as  I  know,  first  called  by  Mr.  Herbert  Spen- 
cer. He  has  shown  that  there  are  excellent  biological  reasons, 
quite  independent  of  those  mechanical  considerations  to  which  I 
have  referred,  why  it  would  be  impossible  for  an  efficient  animal 
to  be  constructed  by  simply  doubling  every  dimension  of  an  ex- 
isting animal.  The  support  of  the  creature's  life  has  to  be 
effected  by  the  absorption  of  nourishment  through  various  sur- 
faces of  the  body.  But  if  all  the  dimensions  are  doubled,  the 
bodily  volume,  as  we  have  already  mentioned,  is  increased  eight- 
fold, and  therefore  its  sustenance  would,  generally  speaking,  re- 
quire eight  times  the  supply  that  sufficed  for  the  original  animal. 
On  the  other  hand,  supposing  the  same  scale  to  be  observed 
throughout  the  animal's  body,  the  available  surface  area  for  ab- 
sorption of  nourishment  has  only  increased  fourfold,  and  there- 
fore each  square  inch  would  have  to  do  double  duty  in  the  large 
animal.  If,  however,  the  surfaces  are  at  present  at  full  work,  it 
would  seem  impossible  that  they  should  efficiently  undertake 
double  the  work  they  now  get  through.  On  this  account,  there- 
fore, a  live  animal  would  seem  impossible  on  a  simple  specifica- 
tion of  dimensions  twice  those  of  any  existing  animal.  Great 
structural  modifications  of  pattern  would  have  to  accompany  the 
enlargement  of  bulk.  This,  be  it  observed,  is  wholly  independent 
of  all  questions  as  to  gravitation. 

No  reasonable  person  will,  I  think,  doubt  that  the  tendency 
of  modern  research  has  been  in  favor  of  the  supposition  that 
there  may  be  life  on  some  of  the  other  globes.  But  the  charac- 
ter of  each  organism  has  to  be  fitted  so  exactly  to  its  environ- 
ment that  it  seems  in  the  highest  degree  unlikely  that  any 
organism  we  know  here  could  live  on  any  other  globe  elsewhere. 
We  cannot  conjecture  what  the  organism  must  be  which  would 
be  adapted  for  a  residence  in  Venus  or  Mars,  nor  does  any  line 
of  research  at  present  known  to  us  hold  out  the  hope  of  more 
definite  knowledge. 

From  an  essay  originally  published  in 
the  Fortnightly  Review. 


385 


HONORE   DE   BALZAC 

(1799-1850) 

|he  attempt  to  supplant  Hugo  with  Balzac  as  <(  the  greatest  of 
French  novelists w  is  being  vigorously  made  by  professional 
critics,  and,  whether  it  succeed  or  not,  it  is  having  a  marked 
effect  in  increasing  the  popularity  of  the  author  of  (<  The  Human  Com- 
edy. 8  It  might  be  said  that,  admitting  Balzac  to  be  <(the  greatest  of 
French  novelists,"  Hugo  at  his  best  belongs  not  to  France,  but  to 
humanity.  It  is  better,  however,  not  to  make  such  comparisons,  for 
nothing  that  can  be  said  in  praise  of  Hugo  can  possibly  cheapen  Bal- 
zac whose  genius  planned  and  showed  itself  adequate  to  execute  the 
vast  scheme  of  <(  The  Human  Comedy, »  with  its  ninety-seven  distinct 
works  and  its  thousands  of  pages  of  text  intended  to  cover  the  whole 
range  of  human  experience.  A  comprehensive  summary  of  what 
must  be  said  to  qualify  praise  of  Balzac  as  a  novelist  would  have  its 
parallel  in  any  comprehensive  statement  of  the  objections  to  the 
best  brand  of  the  most  unquestionably  genuine  French  cognac.  His 
essays,  if  less  intoxicating  than  his  fiction,  are  never  dull.  He  was 
born  at  Tours,  May  20th,  1799,  and  died  August  18th,  1850,  at  Paris, 
where  Victor  Hugo  delivered,  in  his  memory,  one  of  the  most  elo- 
quent orations  delivered  in  France  since  the  death  of  Mirabeau. 


SAINT  PAUL  AS  A  PROPHET  OF  PROGRESS 

Saint  Paul  was  a  prophet  of  the  future, —  a  true  Apostle;  and 
in  order  to  make  worldly  minds  which  treat  Christianity  so 

lightly  share  the  admiration  felt  for  the  sublime  mission  of 
the  first  Christian  artists,  a  writer  should  make  known  the  bar- 
barous manners  and  morals  of  the  ancient  peoples;  manners  and 
morals  which  history  covers  with  a  glamor  of  glory,  forcing  them 
to  appear  uncolored  of  their  black  and  bloody  tints  through  the 
brilliant  veil  thrown  over  them  by  the  chroniclers  of  the  past. 
By  the  side  of  the  splendid  painting  those  chroniclers  have  made 
of  general  institutions  should  be  shown  the  hideous  picture  of 
individual  baseness  and  suffering  —  man  worked  by  man  as  a 
beast  of  burden,  without  guarantee,  without  appeal  against  force; 

1—25 


386  HONORE   DE    BALZAC 

woman  treated  as  a  chattel, —  not  redeeming  herself  even  by  the 
sentiment  she  inspires;  inspiring  no  trust,  no  devotion;  delivered 
over  to  lust  and  cupidity,  or  deprived  of  liberty ;  children  exposed 
to  the  slightest  caprice  of  the  head  of  the  house;  dependent  on 
his  mercy  for  permission  to  live;  the  most  sacred  bonds  of  social 
order — marriage,  birth,  liberty,  life  itself  sometimes  —  without 
guarantee  and  having  no  protection  but  the  worth  of  an  individ- 
ual who  contracted  them. 

This  is  what  ought  to  be  made  known  and  understood  in  or- 
der to  indicate  the  full  value  of  the  work  of  Saint  Paul.  That 
great  man  should  be  shown  founding,  in  the  future,  a  universal 
society,  and  preaching  the  noble  bases  of  social  order  which  the 
Christian  Church  was  one  day  to  realize.  From  his  journeys 
should  be  drawn  the  sublime  lesson  that  the  earth  has  to  be  pre- 
pared to  receive  the  seed  of  the  Sacred  Word,  and  to  bear,  in  a 
coming  day,  the  fruits  of  that  Word.  The  great  Apostle  should 
be  pictured  to  us  advancing  through  the  harshest  difficulties,  the 
keenest  sufferings,  from  Judea,  which  had  furnished  the  God, 
through  Greece,  which  had  prepared  the  intellect,  to  Rome, 
which  was  to  give  both  land  and  speech;  and  there,  enduring 
martyrdom  when  his  mission  had  attained  its  end. 

What  a  sublime  picture  would  be  presented  by  an  analysis 
thus  conducted  of  his  Epistles!  The  duties  of  marriage  so  ad- 
mirably shown  in  the  First  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians,  and  in  that 
to  the  Ephesians;  the  meeting  at  the  same  table  of  poor  and 
rich;  the  Communion  (I.  Corinthians);  the  duties  of  charity,  the 
duties  of  priests,  and  the  ecclesiastical  hierarchy  (I.  Timothy) ;  the 
deliverance  of  slaves  and  the  sacred  dogma  of  social  equality 
(Philemon) ;  the  union  under  one  law  of  all  peoples  and  the 
equality  of  their  deserts  before  God  (Romans) ;  what  a  future  was 
foreshadowed  in  these  paraphrases  of  one  idea,  and  what  sub- 
lime completion  of   the  Master's  Word! 

It  is  enough  to  read  some  of  the  noble  sentences  sown  broad- 
cast through  this  great  work,  and  to  feel  the  various  and  differing 
characteristics  impressed  upon  its  several  parts  —  the  severity  and 
authority  of  I.  Corinthians;  the  consoling  paternity  of  the  Sec- 
ond Epistle;  the  sublime  and  powerful  dialectic  in  Galatians  and 
in  the  first  part  of  Romans;  the  fervent  piety,  the  ardor  for  martyr- 
dom in  Ephesians;  the  sweet  and  tender  charity  of  the  spiritual 
father,  also  in  Ephesians;  and,  lastly,  the  grandeur  of  views,  the 
power  of  creative  intellect  in  the  two  Epistles  to  Timothy. 


HONORE   DE   BALZAC  387 

Have  I  not  shown  that  an  analysis  of  the  Epistles  of  Saint 
Paul  is  still  to  make  ?  I  appeal  to  men  who  are  meditating  his- 
tory to  take  up  that  important  work.  It  is  the  point  of  depart- 
ure of  the  development  of  Christian  faith,  and,  consequently,  of 
the  establishment  of  the  social  bond  which  has  ruled  Europe  for 
centuries,  and  of  which  our  present  political  institutions  are  but 
a  derivation. 

But  the  ungrateful  child  has  cursed  its  mother;  men  who  are 
so  proud  to-day  of  their  civilization  forget  the  great  artists  who 
founded  it  by  their  predictions  and  the  sublime  philosophers  who 
constructed  its  base. 

By  permission  from  ((  Personal  Opinions  of  Honore  de  Balzac, »  translated  by 
Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley.  Copyright  1899,  by  Hardy,  Pratt  &  Co., 
Boston. 


WALTER  SCOTT  AND  FENIMORE  COOPER 

I    have  a  serious   reproach   to   make  against  Cooper.     Certainly, 
he  does  not  owe  his  fame  to  his  fellow-citizens,  neither  does 

he  owe  it  to  England;  he  owes  it  in  a  great  measure  to 
the  passionate  admiration  of  France,  to  our  fine  and  noble  coun- 
try, more  considerate  of  foreign  men  of  genius  than  she  is  of 
her  own  poets.  Cooper  has  been  understood  and,  above  all,  ap- 
preciated in  France.  I  am  therefore  surprised  to  see  him  ridicule 
the  French  officers  who  were  in  Canada  in  1750.  Those  officers 
were  gentlemen,  and  history  tells  us  that  their  conduct  was 
noble.  Is  it  for  an  American,  whose  position  demands  of  him 
lofty  ideas,  to  give  a  gratuitously  odious  character  to  one  of  those 
officers  when  the  sole  succor  that  America  received  during  her 
War  of  Independence  came  from  France  ?  My  observation  is,  I 
think,  the  more  just  because  in  reading  over  all  Cooper's  works 
I  find  it  impossible  to  discover  even  a  trace  of  good-will  to 
France. 

The  difference  that  exists  between  Walter  Scott  and  Cooper 
is  derived  essentially  from  the  nature  of  the  subjects  towards 
which  their  genius  led  them.  From  Cooper's  scenes  nothing 
philosophical  or  impressive  to  the  intellect  issues  when,  the  work 
once  read,  the  soul  looks  back  to  take  in  a  sense  of  the  whole. 
Yet  both  are  great  historians;  both  have  cold  hearts;  neither  will 
admit  passion,  that  divine  emanation,  superior  to  the  virtue  that 


388  HONORE    DE    BALZAC 

man  has  constructed  for  the  preservation  of  society.  They  have 
suppressed  it,  they  have  offered  it  as  a  holocaust  to  the  blue- 
stockings of  their  country,  but  the  one  initiates  you  into  great 
human  evolutions,  the  other  into  the  mighty  heart  of  Nature 
herself.  One  has  brought  literature  to  grasp  the  earth  and  ocean, 
the  other  makes  it  grapple  body  to  body  with  humanity.  Read 
Cooper  and  this  will  strike  you  especially  in  (CThe  Pathfinder. n 
You  will  not  find  a  portrait  which  makes  you  think,  which  brings 
you  back  into  yourself  by  some  subtle  or  ingenious  reflection, 
which  explains  to  you  facts,  persons,  or  actions.  He  seems,  on 
the  contrary,  to  wish  to  plunge  you  into  solitude  and  leave  you 
to  dream  there;  whereas  Scott  gives  you,  wherever  you  are,  a 
brilliant  company  of  human  beings.  Cooper's  work  isolates; 
Scott  weds  you  to  his  drama  as  he  paints  with  broad  strokes  the 
feature  of  his  country  at  all  epochs.  The  grandeur  of  Cooper  is 
a  reflection  of  the  Nature  he  depicts;  that  of  Walter  Scott  is 
more  peculiarly  his  own.  The  Scotchman  procreates  his  work; 
the  American  is  the  son  of  his.  Walter  Scott  has  a  hundred 
aspects;  Cooper  is  a  painter  of  sea  and  landscape,  admirably 
aided  by  two  academies, —  the  Savage  and  the  Sailor.  His  noble 
creation  of  (<  Leather-Stocking B  is  a  work  apart.  Not  under- 
standing English  I  cannot  judge  of  the  style  of  these  two  great 
geniuses,  happily  for  us  so  different,  but  I  should  suppose  the 
Scotchman  to  be  superior  to  the  American  in  the  expression  of 
his  thought  and  in  the  mechanism  of  his  style.  Cooper  is  illog- 
ical; he  proceeds  by  sentences  which,  taken  one  by  one,  are  con- 
fused, the  succeeding  phrase  not  allied  to  the  preceding,  though 
the  whole  presents  an  imposing  substance.  To  understand  this 
criticism  read  the  first  two  pages  of  "The  Pathfinder, w  and  examine 
each  proposition.  You  will  find  a  muddle  of  ideas  which  would 
bring  <(  pensums *  upon  any  rhetoric  pupil  in  France.  But  the 
moment  the  majesty  of  his  Nature  lays  hold  of  you,  you  forget 
the  clumsy  lurching  of  the  vessel, —  you  think  only  of  the  ocean 
or  the  lake.  To  sum  up  once  more:  one  is  the  historian  of  Nat- 
ure, the  other  of  humanity;  one  attains  to  the  glorious  ideal  by 
imagery,  the  other  by  action,  though  without  neglecting  poesy, 
the  high-priestess  of  art. 

By  pormission  from  <(  Personal  Opinions  of  Honore  de  Balzac, »  translated  by 
Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley.  Copyright  1899,  by  Hardy,  Pratt  &  Co., 
Boston. 


3§9 


GEORGE   BANCROFT 

(1800-1891) 

|ad  not  Bancroft  chosen  to  become  the  leading  American  his- 
torian of  the  ninteenth  century,  he  might  easily  have  be- 
come celebrated  as  an  essayist.  Such  essays  as  he  has  left, 
though  few  in  number,  have  the  geniune  quality  which  distinguishes 
the  essay  from  the  mere  ((  paper. M  Each  of  them  is  controlled  by  a 
central  idea  which  is  developed  by  the  massing  of  the  facts  most 
necessary  to  illustrate  it.  In  this  method  most  plainly  appears  the 
difference  between  the  essayist  and  the  critic;  for  the  one  deals  with 
the  facts  of  nature  and  human  nature,  while  the  mind  of  the  other  is 
engrossed  chiefly  with  his  own  opinions.  Bancroft,  a  true  essayist,  is 
as  concrete  in  his  prose  as  Shakespeare  is  in  his  dramas  or  as  the 
Gospels  are  in  their  parables.  As  literature  began  in  picture  writing, 
so,  in  another  way,  it  ends  in  it,  for  there  can  be  nothing  higher  in 
literature  than  the  work  which  forces  on  the  mind  great  ideas  al- 
ready embodied  in  their  most  fitting  images.  It  is  easy  to  express 
opinions.  Especially  is  it  easy  to  sit  in  judgment  and  give  sentence 
on  the  work  of  others.  (<  Literature B  begins  thus  for  most  authors 
in  their  Sophomore  years.  But  before  any  one  can  write  such  essays 
as  those  of  Bancroft,  he  must  give  up  the  critical  for  the  sake  of  ac- 
quiring the  constructive  intellect.  When  Bancroft  thinks,  it  is  not  of 
the  flaws  in  nature  or  in  art,  but  of  one  after  another  of  the  endless 
variety  of  different  forms  in  which  the  essential  unity  of  things  ex- 
presses itself.  And  it  is  from  this  principle  of  unity  in  diversity  that 
his  literary  method  borrows  its  power  and  its  charm. 

He  was  born  at  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  October  3d,  1800,  and 
educated  at  Harvard  with  post-graduate  studies  at  Gottingen,  Berlin, 
and  Heidelberg.  After  teaching  Greek  at  Harvard  and  serving  as 
Secretary  of  the  Navy  in  President  Polk's  cabinet,  he  went  in  1846  as 
Minister  to  Great  Britain,  and  twenty  years  later  as  Minister  to  Ger- 
many. In  the  meantime  he  had  made  his  (<  History  of  the  United 
States'*  the  serious  work  of  his  life.  The  first  volume  appeared  in 
1834,  the  last  in  1882.     He  died  at  Washington,  January  17th,    1891. 


390  GEORGE   BANCROFT 


THE   RULING    PASSION    IN    DEATH 

Perhaps  the  most  common  device  for  averting  contemplation 
from  death  itself  is  in  directing  it  to  the  manner  of  dying. 
Vanitas  vanitatum !  Vanity  does  not  give  up  its  hold  on 
the  last  hour.  Men  wish  to  die  with  distinction,  to  be  buried  in 
state;  and  the  last  thoughts  are  employed  on  the  decorum  of  the 
moment,  or  in  the  anticipation  of  funeral  splendors.  It  was  no 
uncommon  thing  among  the  Romans  for  a  rich  man  to  appoint 
an  heir,  on  condition  that  his  obsequies  should  be  celebrated 
with  costly  pomp.  <(  When  I  am  dead,"  said  an  Indian  chief, 
who  fell  into  his  last  sleep  at  Washington, — <(  when  I  am  dead, 
let  the  big  guns  be  fired  over  me."  The  words  were  thought 
worthy  of  being  engraved  on  his  tomb;  but  they  are  no  more 
than  a  plain  expression  of  a  very  common  passion, —  the  same, 
which  leads  the  humblest  to  desire  that  at  least  a  stone  may  be 
placed  at  the  head  of  his  grave,  and  demands  the  erection  of 
splendid  mausoleums  and  costly  tombs  for  the  mistaken  men, 

((  Who  by  the  proofs  of  death  pretend  to  live." 

Among  the  Ancients,  an  opulent  man,  while  yet  in  health, 
would  order  his  own  sarcophagus;  and  nowadays  the  wealthy 
sometimes  build  their  own  tombs,  for  the  sake  of  securing  a  sat- 
isfactory monument.  A  vain  man,  who  had  done  this  at  a  great 
expense,  showed  his  motive  so  plainly,  that  his  neighbors  laughed 
with  the  sexton  of  the  parish,  who  wished  that  the  builder  might 
not  be  kept  long  out  of  the  interest  of  his  money 

But  it  is  not  merely  in  the  decorations  of  the  grave  that 
vanity  is  displayed.  Saladin,  in  his  last  illness,  instead  of  his 
usual  standard,  ordered  his  shroud  to  be  uplifted  in  front  of  his 
tent;  and  the  herald,  who  hung  out  this  winding  sheet  as  a  flag, 
was  commanded  to  exclaim  aloud :  <(  Behold !  this  is  all  which 
Saladin,  the  vanquisher  of  the  East,  carries  away  of  all  his  con- 
quests." He  was  wrong  there.  He  came  naked  into  the  world, 
and  he  left  it  naked.  Graveclothes  were  a  superfluous  luxury, 
and,  to  the  person  receiving  them,  as  barren  of  comfort  as  his 
sceptre  or  his  scimiter.  Saladin  was  vain.  He  sought  in  dying 
to  contrast  the  power  he  had  enjoyed  with  the  feebleness  of  his 
condition;  to  pass  from  the  world  in  a  striking  antithesis;  to 
make  his  death  scene  an  epigram.     All  was  vanity. 


GEORGE    BANCROFT  391 

A  century  ago  it  was  the  fashion  for  culprits  to  appear  on  the 
scaffold  in  the  dress  of  dandies.  Some  centuries  before,  it  was 
the  privilege  of  noblemen,  if  they  merited  hanging,  to  escape  the 
gallows,  and  perish  on  the  block.  The  Syrian  priests  had  fore- 
told to  the  Emperor  Heliogabulus  that  he  would  be  reduced  to 
the  necessity  of  committing  suicide ;  believing  them  true  prophets, 
he  kept  in  readiness  silken  cords  and  a  sword  of  gold.  Admira- 
ble privilege  of  the  nobility,  to  be  beheaded  instead  of  hanged! 
Enviable  prerogative  of  imperial  dignity,  to  be  strangled  with  a 
knot  of  silk,  or  to  be  assassinated  with  a  golden  sword! 

Odious!  in  woolen!  'twould  a  saint  provoke, 
(Were  the  last  words  that  poor  Narcissa  spoke). 
No,  let  a  charming  chintz  and  Brussels  lace 
Wrap  my  cold  limbs  and  shade  my  lifeless  face; 
One  would  not  sure  be  frightful  when  one's  dead, 
And  —  Betty  —  give  this  cheek  a  little  red." 

The  example  chosen  by  the  poet  extended  to  appearances 
after  death;  for  the  presence  of  the  same  weakness  in  the  hour 
of  mortality  we  must  look  to  the  precincts  of  courts,  where  folly 
used  to  reign  by  prescriptive  right;  where  caprice  gives  law  and 
pleasures  consume  life.  There  you  may  witness  the  harlot's  eu- 
thanasia. The  French  court  was  at  Choisy  when  Madame  de 
Pompadour  felt  the  pangs  of  a  fatal  malady.  It  had  been  the 
established  etiquette  that  none  but  princes  and  persons  of  royal 
blood  should  breathe  their  last  in  Versailles.  Proclaim  to  the  gay 
circles  of  Paris  that  a  thing  new  and  unheard  of  is  to  be  per- 
mitted; announce  to  the  world  that  the  rules  of  palace  propriety 
and  Bourbon  decorum  are  to  be  broken!  That  the  chambers, 
where  vice  had  fearlessly  lived  and  laughed,  but  had  never  been 
permitted  to  expire,  were  to  admit  the  novel  spectacle  of  the 
king's  favorite  mistress  struggling  with  death ! 

The  marchioness  questioned  the  physicians  firmly;  she  per- 
ceived their  hesitation;  she  saw  the  hand  that  beckoned  her  awav; 
and  she  determined,  says  the  historian,  to  depart  in  the  pomp  of 
a  queen.  Louis  XV.,  himself  not  capable  of  a  strong  emotion, 
was  yet  willing  to  concede  to  his  dying  friend  the  consolation 
which  she  coveted, —  the  opportunity  to  reign  till  her  parting 
gasp.  The  courtiers  thronged  round  the  deathbed  of  a  woman 
who  distributed  favors  with  the  last  exhalations  of  her  breath; 
and  the  king  hurried  to  name  to  public  offices  the  persons  whom 


392  GEORGE    BANCROFT 

her  faltering  accents  recommended.  Her  sick  room  became  a 
scene  of  state;  the  princes  and  grandees  still  entered  to  pay  their 
homage  to  the  woman  whose  power  did  not  yield  to  mortal  dis- 
ease, and  were  surprised  to  find  her  richly  attired.  The  traces 
of  death  in  her  countenance  were  concealed  by  rouge.  She  re- 
clined on  a  splendid  couch;  questions  of  public  policy  were  dis- 
cussed by  ministers  in  her  presence;  she  gloried  in  holding  to 
the  end  the  reins  of  the  kingdom  in  her  hands.  Even  a  syco- 
phant clergy  showed  respect  to  the  expiring  favorite,  and  felt  no 
shame  as  sanctioning  with  their  frequent  visits  the  vices  of  a 
woman  who  had  entered  the  palace  only  as  an  adulteress.  Hav- 
ing complied  with  the  rites  of  the  Roman  Church,  she  next 
sought  the  approbation  of  the  philosophers.  She  lisped  no  word 
of  penitence;  she  shed  no  tears  of  regret.  The  curate  left  her 
as  she  was  in  the  agony.  "Wait  a  moment,*  said  she,  (<  we  will 
leave  the  house  together. w 

The  dying  mistress  was  worshiped  while  she  breathed.  Hardly 
was  she  dead  when  the  scene  changed;  two  domestics  carried  out 
her  body  on  a  handbarrow  from  the  palace  to  her  private  home. 
The  king  stood  at  the  window,  looking  at  the  clouds,  as  her  re- 
mains were  carried  by.  <(  The  marchioness, w  said  he,  (<  will  have 
bad  weather  on  her  journey. * 

The  flickering  lamp  blazes  with  unusual  brightness  just  as  it 
goes  out.  "The  fit  gives  vigor  as  it  destroys. w  He  who  has  but 
a  moment  remaining  is  released  from  the  common  motives  for 
dissimulation;  and  Time,  that  lays  his  hand  on  everything  else, 
destroying  beauty,  undermining  health,  and  wasting  the  powers  of 
life,  spares  the  ruling  passion,  which  is  connected  with  the  soul 
itself.     That  passion 

(<  Sticks  to  our  last  sand. 
Consistent  in  our  follies  and  our  sins, 
Here  honest  nature  ends  as  she  begins." 

Napoleon  expired  during  the  raging  of  a  whirlwind,  and  his 
last  words  showed  that  his  thoughts  were  in  the  battlefield. 
The  meritorious  author  of  the  <(  Memoir  of  Cabot, w  a  work  which 
in  accuracy  and  in  extensive  research  is  very  far  superior  to 
most  late  treatises  on  maritime  discovery,  tells  us  that  the  dis- 
coverer of  our  continent,  in  a  hallucination  before  his  death,  be- 
lieved himself  again  on  the  ocean,  once  more  steering  in  quest 
of  adventure  over  waves  which  knew  him  as  the  steed  knows  its 


GEORGE   BANCROFT  393 

rider.  How  many  a  gentle  eye  has  been  dimmed  with  tears  as 
it  read  the  fabled  fate  of  Fergus  Maclvor!  Not  inferior  to  the 
admirable  hero  of  the  romance  was  the  Marquis  of  Montrose,  who 
had  fought  for  the  Stuarts  and  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Presby- 
terians. His  head  and  his  limbs  were  ordered  to  be  severed  from 
his  body  and  to  be  hanged  on  the  tollbooth  in  Edinburgh  and 
in  other  public  towns  of  the  kingdom.  He  listened  to  the  sen- 
tence with  the  pride  of  loyalty  and  the  fierce  anger  of  a  gener- 
ous defiance.  <(  I  wish,"  he  exclaimed,  <(  I  had  flesh  enough  to 
be  sent  to  every  city  in  Christendom,  as  a  testimony  to  the 
cause  for  which  I  suffer. B  * 

But  let  us  take  an  example  of  sublimer  virtue,  such  as  we 
find  in  a  statesman  who  lived  without  a  stain  from  youth  to 
maturity,  and  displayed  an  unwavering  consistency  to  the  last;  a 
hero  in  civil  life,  who  was  in  some  degree  our  own.  It  becomes 
America  to  take  part  in  rescuing  from  undeserved  censure  the 
names  and  the  memory  of  victims  to  the  unconquerable  love  of 
republican  liberty. 

<(Vane,  young  in  years,  in  counsel  old;  to  know 

Both  spiritual  power  and  civil,  what  each  means, 

What  severs  each,  thou'st  learned,  which  few  have  done. 
The  bounds  of  either  sword  to  thee  we  owe ; 

Therefore  on  thy  firm  hand  religion  leans 
In  peace,  and  reckons  thee  her  eldest  son." 

He  that  would  discern  the  difference  between  magnanimous 
genius  and  a  shallow  wit  may  compare  this  splendid  eulogy  of 
Milton  with  the  superficial  levity  in  the  commentary  of  Warton. 
It  is  a  fashion  to  call  Sir  Henry  Vane  a  fanatic.  And  what  is 
fanaticism  ?  True,  he  was  a  rigid  Calvinist.  True,  he  has  written 
an  obscure  book  on  the  mystery  of  godliness,  of  which  all  that 
we  understand  is  excellent,  and  we  may,  therefore,  infer  that  the 
vein  of  the  rest  is  good.  But  does  this  prove  him  a  fanatic  ?  If 
to  be  the  uncompromising  defender  of  civil  and  religious  liberty 
be  fanaticism;  if  to  forgive  injuries  be  fanaticism;  if  to  believe 
that  the  mercy  of  God  extends  to  all  his  creatures,  and  may  reach 
even  the  angels  of  darkness,  be  fanaticism,  if  to  have  earnestly 
supported  in  the  Long  Parliament  the  freedom  of  conscience; 
if  to  have  repeatedly,  boldly,  and  zealously  interposed  to  check 
the  persecution  of  Roman  Catholics;    if  to  have  labored  that  the 

*  See  also  the  exclamation  of  Richard  Rumbold  under  similar  circumstances. 


394  GEORGE   BANCROFT 

sect  which  he  least  approved  should  enjoy  their  property  in  se- 
curity and  be  safe  from  all  penal  enactments  for  nonconformity; 
if  in  his  public  life  to  have  pursued  a  career  of  firm,  conscien- 
tious, disinterested  consistency,  never  wavering,  never  trimming, 
never  changing, —  if  all  this  be  fanaticism,  then  was  Sir  Henry 
Vane  a  fanatic.  Not  otherwise.  The  people  of  Massachusetts 
declined  to  continue  him  in  office;  and  when  his  power  in  Eng- 
land was  great,  he  requited  the  colony  with  the  benefits  of  his 
favoring  influence.  He  resisted  the  arbitrariness  of  Charles  I., 
but  would  not  sit  as  one  of  his  judges.  He  opposed  the  tyranny 
of  Cromwell.  When  that  extraordinary  man  entered  the  House 
of  Commons  to  break  up  the  Parliament,  which  was  about  to  pass 
laws  that  would  have  endangered  his  supremacy,  Vane  rebuked 
him  for  his  purpose  of  treason.  When  the  musketeers  invaded 
the  Hall  of  Debate,  and  others  were  silent,  Vane  exclaimed  to  the 
most  despotic  man  in  Europe:  <(  This  is  not  honest.  It  is  against 
morality  and  common  honesty. w  Well  might  Cromwell,  since  his 
designs  were  criminal,  reply:  <(  Sir  Henry  Vane!  Sir  Henry  Vane! 
The  Lord  deliver  me  from  Sir  Henry  Vane!w 

Though  Vane  suffered  from  the  usurpation  of  the  Protector, 
he  lived  to  see  the  Restoration.  On  the  return  of  the  Stuarts, 
like  Lafayette  among  the  Bourbons,  he  remained  the  stanch  en- 
emy of  tyranny.  The  austere  patriot,  whom  Cromwell  had  feared, 
struck  terror  into  the  hearts  of  a  faithless  and  licentious  court. 
It  was  resolved  to  destroy  him.  In  a  different  age  or  country, 
the  poisoned  cup,  or  the  knife  of  the  assassin,  might  have  been 
used;  in  that  season  of  corrupt  influence,  a  judicial  murder  was 
resolved  upon.  His  death  was  a  deliberate  crime,  contrary  to  the 
royal  promise ;  contrary  to  the  express  vote  of  (<  the  healing  Par- 
liament B ;  contrary  to  law,  to  equity,  to  the  evidence.  But  it 
suited  the  designs  of  a  monarch,  who  feared  to  be  watched  by  a 
statesman  of  incorruptible  elevation  of  character.  The  night  be- 
fore his  execution  he  enjoyed  the  society  of  his  family,  as  if  he 
had  been  reposing  in  his  own  mansion.  The  next  morning  he 
was  beheaded.  The  least  concession  would  have  saved  him.  If 
he  had  only  consented  to  deny  the  supremacy  of  Parliament,  the 
king  would  have  restrained  the  malignity  of  his  hatred.  (<Ten 
thousand  deaths  for  me, w  exclaimed  Vane,  (<  ere  I  will  stain  the 
purity  of  my  conscience.  °  Historians  report  that  life  was  dear  to 
him;  he  submitted  to  his  end  with  the  firmness  of  a  patriot,  the 
serenity  of  a  Christian.      .     .     . 


GEORGE   BANCROFT  395 

Lorenzo  de  Medici,  upon  his  deathbed,  sent  for  Savonarola  to 
receive  his  confession  and  grant  him  absolution.  The  severe  an- 
chorite questioned  the  dying  sinner  with  unsparing  rigor.  <(  Do 
you  believe  entirely  in  the  mercy  of  God  ?  M  (<  Yes,  I  feel  it  in 
my  heart."  <(Are  you  truly  ready  to  restore  all  the  possessions 
and  estates  which  you  have  unjustly  acquired  ? n  The  dying  duke 
hesitated;  he  counted  up  in  his  mind  the  sums  which  he  had 
hoarded;  delusion  whispered  that  nearly  all  had  been  so  honestly 
gained  that  the  sternest  censor  would  strike  but  little  from  his 
opulence.  The  pains  of  hell  were  threatened  if  he  denied;  and 
he  gathered  courage  to  reply  that  he  was  ready  to  make  restitu- 
tion. Once  more  the  unyielding  priest  resumed  his  inquisition. 
<(  Will  you  resign  the  sovereignty  of  Florence,  and  restore  the 
democracy  of  the  republic  ?  "  Lorenzo,  like  Macbeth,  had  acquired 
a  crown;  but,  unlike  Macbeth,  he  saw  sons  of  his  own  about  to 
become  his  successors.  He  gloried  in  the  hope  of  being  the 
father  of  princes,  the  founder  of  a  line  of  hereditary  sovereigns. 
Should  he  crush  this  brilliant  expectation  and  tremble  at  the 
wild  words  of  a  visionary  ?  Should  he  who  had  reigned  as  a 
monarch  stoop  to  die  as  a  merchant  ?  No !  though  hell  itself 
were  opening  beneath  his  bed.  (( Not  that !  I  cannot  part  with 
that ! n  Savonarola  left  his  bedside  with  indignation,  and  Lorenzo 
died  without  shrift. 

(<And  you,  brave  Cobham,  to  the  latest  breath, 
Shall  feel  your  ruling  passion  strong  in  death, 
Such  in  those  moments  as  in  all  the  past, — 
(Oh!  save  my  country,  Heaven !)  shall  be  your  last.w 

Like  this  was  the  exclamation  of  the  patriot  Ouincy,  whose 
virtues  have  been  fitly  commemorated  by  the  pious  reverence  of 
his  son.  The  celebrated  Admiral  Blake  breathed  his  last  as  he 
came  in  sight  of  England,  happy  in  at  last  descrying  the  land, 
of  which  he  had  advanced  the  glory  by  his  brilliant  victories. 
Quincy  died  as  he  approached  the  coast  of  Massachusetts.  He 
loved  his  family;  but  at  that  moment  he  gave  his  whole  soul  to 
the  cause  of  freedom.  (<  Oh,  that  I  might  live,8 — it  was  his  dy- 
ing wish, — <(  to  render  my  country  one  last  service.0 

The  coward  falls  panic-stricken;  the  superstitious  man  dies 
with  visions  of  terror  floating  before  his  fancy.  It  has  even 
happened  that  a  man  has  been  in  such  dread  of  eternal  woe  as 
to  cut  his  throat  in  his  despair.     The  phenomenon  seems  strange, 


396  GEORGE    BANCROFT 

but  the  fact  is  unquestionable.  The  giddy  that  are  near  a 
precipice  totter  towards  the  brink  which  they  would  shun.  Every- 
body remembers  the  atheism  and  bald  sensuality  of  the  septu- 
agenarian Alexander  VI. ;  and  the  name  of  his  natural  son, 
Caesar  Borgia,  is  a  proverb  as  a  synonym  for  the  most  vicious 
selfishness.  Let  one  tale,  of  which  Macchiavelli  attests  the  truth, 
set  forth  the  deep  baseness  of  a  cowardly  nature.  Borgia  had, 
by  the  most  solemn  oaths,  induced  the  Duke  of  Gravina,  Oliver- 
otto,  Vitellozzo  Vitelli,  and  another,  to  meet  him  in  Senigaglia, 
for  the  purpose  of  forming  a  treaty,  and  then  issued  the  order 
for  the  massacre  of  Oliverotto  and  Vitelli.  Can  it  be  believed  ? 
Vitelli,  as  he  expired,  begged  of  the  infamous  Borgia,  his  as- 
sassin, to  obtain  of  Alexander  a  dispensation  for  his  omissions,  a 
release  from  purgatory. 

The  deathbed  of  Cromwell  himself  was  not  free  from  super- 
stition. When  near  his  end  he  asked  if  the  elect  could  never 
fall.  (<  Never, M  replied  Godwin  the  preacher.  "Then  I  am  safe," 
said  the  man  whose  last  years  had  been  stained  by  cruelty  and 
tyranny;  (<  f or  I  am  sure  I  was  once  in  a  state  of  grace. M 

Ximenes  languished  from  disappointment  at  the  loss  of  power 
and  the  want  of  royal  favor.  A  smile  from  Louis  would  have 
cheered  the  deathbed  of  Racine. 

In  a  brave  mind  the  love  of  honor  endures  to  the  last. 
"Don't  give  up  the  ship,"  cried  Lawrence,  as  his  lifeblood  was 
flowing  in  torrents.  Abimelech  groaned  that  he  fell  ignobly  by 
the  hand  of  a  woman.  We  have  ever  admired  the  gallant  death 
of  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  who,  in  a  single  ship,  encountered  a 
numerous  fleet,  and,  when  mortally  wounded,  husbanded  his 
strength  till  he  could  summon  his  victors  to  bear  testimony  to 
his  courage  and  his  patriotism.  <(  Here  die  I,  Richard  Grenville, 
with  a  joyous  and  quiet  mind,  for  that  I  have  ended  my  life 
as  a  true  soldier  ought  to  do,  fighting  for  his  country,  queen, 
religion,  and  honor. w 

The  public  has  been  instructed  through  the  press  in  the  de- 
tails of  the  treason  of  Benedict  Arnold  by  an  inquirer,  who  has 
compassed  earth  and  sea  in  search  of  historic  truth,  and  has  mer- 
ited the  applause  of  his  country  not  less  for  candor  and  judg- 
ment than  for  diligence  and  ability.  The  victim  of  the  intrigue 
was  Andre.  The  mind  of  the  young  soldier  revolted  at  the 
service  of  treachery  in  which  he  had  become  involved,  and,  hold- 
ing a  stain  upon  honor  to  be  worse  than   the   forfeiture   of  life, 


GEORGE    BANCROFT  397 

he  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  the  gallows,  but  not  at  the  thought 
of  dying.  He  felt  the  same  sentiment  which  made  death  wel- 
come to  Nelson  and  to  Wolfe,  to  whom  it  came  with  glory  and 
victory  for  its  companions;  but  for  Andre,  the  keen  sense  of 
honor  added  bitterness  to  the  cup  of  affliction,  by  exciting  fear 
lest  the  world  should  take  the  manner  of  his  execution  as  evi- 
dence of  merited  opprobrium. 

Finally,  he  who  has  a  good  conscience  and  a  well-balanced 
mind  meets  death  with  calmness,  resignation,  and  hope.  Saint 
Louis  died  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage;  a  Christian  king,  labor- 
ing in  vain  to  expel  the  religion  of  Mahomet  from  the  spot 
where  Dido  had  planted  the  gods  of  Syria.  <(  My  friends, w  said 
he,  <(  I  have  finished  my  course.  Do  not  mourn  for  me.  It  is 
natural  that  I,  as  your  chief  and  leader,  should  go  before  you. 
You  must  follow  me.  Keep  yourselves  in  readiness  for  the  jour- 
ney. °  Then  giving  his  son  his  blessing  and  the  best  advice,  he 
received  the  Sacrament,  closed  his  eyes,  and  died  as  he  was  re- 
peating from  the  Psalms :  (<  I  will  come  into  thy  house ;  I  will 
worship  in  thy  holy  temple. B 

The  curate  of  St.  Sulpice  asked  the  confessor  who  had  shrived 
Montesquieu  on  his  deathbed,  if  the  penitent  had  given  satisfac- 
tion. "Yes,"  replied  Father  Roust,  Mike  a  man  of  genius. }>  The 
curate  was  displeased.  Unwilling  to  leave  the  dying  man  a  mo- 
ment of  tranquillity,  he  addressed  him,  (<  Sir,  are  you  truly  con- 
scious of  the  greatness  of  God  ? n  <(  Yes, w  said  the  departing 
philosopher,  (<and  of  the  littleness  of  man.0 

How  calm  were  the  last  moments  of  Cuvier!  Benevolence  of 
feeling  and  self-possession  diffused  serenity  round  the  hour  of  his 
passing  away.  Confident  that  the  hand  of  Death  was  upon  him, 
he  yet  submitted  to  the  application  of  remedies,  that  he  might 
gratify  his  more  hopeful  friends.  They  had  recourse  to  leeches; 
and  with  delightful  simplicity  the  great  naturalist  observed,  it  was 
he  who  had  discovered  that  leeches  possess  red  blood.  The  dis- 
covery, which  he  made  in  his  youth,  had  been  communicated  to 
the  public  in  the  memoir  that  first  gained  him  celebrity.  The 
thoughts  of  the  dying  naturalist  recurred  to  the  scenes  of  his 
early  life,  to  the  coast  of  Normandy,  where,  in  the  solitude  of 
conscious  genius,  he  had  roamed  by  the  side  of  the  ocean,  and 
achieved  fame  by  observing  the  wonders  of  animal  life  which  are 
nourished  in  its  depths.  He  remembered  his  years  of  poverty, 
the  sullen  rejection  which  his  first  claims  for  advancement  had 


398  GEORGE    BANCROFT 

received,  and  all  the  vicissitudes  through  which  he  had  been  led 
to  the  highest  distinctions  in  science.  The  son  of  the  Wurtem- 
berg  soldier,  of  too  feeble  a  frame  to  embrace  the  profession  of 
his  father,  had  found  his  way  to  the  secrets  of  nature.  The  man 
who  in  his  own  province  had  been  refused  the  means  of  becom- 
ing the  village  pastor  of  an  ignorant  peasantry,  had  succeeded  in 
charming  the  most  polished  circles  of  Paris  by  the  clearness  of 
his  descriptions,  and  commanding  the  attention  of  the  Deputies 
of  France  by  the  grace  and  fluency  of  his  elocution.  And  now 
he  was  calmly  predicting  his  departure;  his  respiration  became 
rapid;  and  his  head  fell  as  if  he  were  in  meditation.  Thus  his 
soul  passed  to  its  Creator  without  a  struggle.  <(  Those  who  en- 
tered afterwards  would  have  thought  that  the  noble  old  man, 
seated  in  his  armchair  by  the  fireplace,  was  asleep,  and  would 
have  walked  softly  across  the  room  for  fear  of  disturbing  him.8 
Heaven  had  but  (< recalled  its  own." 

The  death  of  Haller  himself  was  equally  tranquil.  When  its 
hour  approached,  he  watched  the  ebbing  of  life  and  continued 
to  observe  the  beating  of  his  pulse  till  sensation  was  gone. 

A  tranquil  death  becomes  the  man  of  science  or  the  scholar. 
He  should  cultivate  letters  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life;  he 
should  resign  public  honors  as  calmly  as  one  would  take  off 
a  domino  on  returning  from  a  mask.  He  should  listen  to  the  sig- 
nal for  his  departure,  not  with  exultation,  and  not  with  indiffer- 
ence. Respecting  the  dread  solemnity  of  the  change,  and  reposing 
in  hope  on  the  bosom  of  Death,  he  should  pass,  without  boldness 
and  without  fear,  from  the  struggles  of  inquiry  to  the  certainty 
of  knowledge,  from  a  world  of  doubt  to  a  world  of  truth. 

From  (( Literary  and  Historical  Miscellanies. » 


399 


RICHARD   BATHURST 
(7-1762) 

ichard  Bathurst,  whose  contributions  to  the  Adventurer 
won  him  his  place  among  English  essayists  of  the  classical 
period,  was  born  in  Jamaica  at  a  date  which  his  biographers 
leave  uncertain.  His  father  sent  him  to  England  to  be  educated,  and 
he  graduated  at  Cambridge  in  1745.  In  London,  where  he  studied 
medicine,  he  became  acquainted  with  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  who,  with 
Warton  and  Hawkeworth,  was  then  contributing  to  the  Adventurer. 
Boswell  asserts  that  some  of  the  essays  attributed  to  Bathurst  in 
the  Adventurer  series  were  dictated  by  Doctor  Johnson  and  merely 
taken  down  by  Bathurst,  but  this  has  not  been  demonstrated.  Doc- 
tor Johnson  seems  to  have  had  a  high  opinion  of  Bathurst.  When 
Bathurst  died  in  1762,  while  doing  his  duty  as  an  army  surgeon  in 
the  British  expedition  to  Cuba,  Johnson  quoted  Virgil:  — 

Vix  Priamns  tanti  totaque   Troja  fnit. 

Our  victory  cheapens  won  at  such  a  cost, 
For  glory's  all  too  dear  with  Bathurst  lost. 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A   HALF-PENNY 

Mobilitate  vigct.  —  Virgil. 

Its  life  is  motion. 

To  the  Adventurer 

March  12th,  1753. 
Sir :  — 

The  adulteration  of  the  copper  coin,  as  it  is  highly  pernicious 
to  trade  in  general,  so  it  more  immediately  affects  the  itin- 
erate branches  of  it.  Among  these,  at  present,  are  to  be 
found  the  only  circulators  of  base  metal;  and,  perhaps,  the  only 
dealers  who  are  obliged  to  take  in  payment  such  counterfeits  as 
will  find  a  currency  nowhere  else.  And  yet  they  are  not  allowed 
to  raise  the  price  of  their  commodities,  though  they  are  abridged 
of  so  considerable  a  portion  of  their  profits. 


4oo  RICHARD    BATHURST 

A  Tyburn  execution;  a  duel;  a  most  terrible  fire;  or  a  horrid, 
barbarous,  bloody,  cruel,  and  inhuman  murder,  was  wont  to  bring 
in  vast  revenues  to  the  lower  class  of  pamphleteers,  who  get 
their  livelihood  by  vending  these  diurnal  records  publicly  in  the 
streets.  But  since  half-pence  have  been  valued  at  no  more  than 
five  pence  the  pound  weight,  these  occasional  pieces  will  hardly 
answer  the  expenses  of  printing  and  paper;  and  the  servant- 
maid,  who  used  to  indulge  her  taste  for  polite  literature  by  pur- 
chasing fifty  new  playhouse  songs,  or  a  whole  poetical  sheet  of 
the  Yorkshire  Garland  or  Gloucestershire  Tragedy,  for  a  half- 
penny, can  now  scarcely  procure  more  than  one  single  slip  of 
C<I  Love  Sue,w  or  (<The  Lover's  Complaint. w 

It  is  also  observable  that  the  park  no  longer  echoes  with  the 
shrill  cry  of  "Toothpicks!  take  you  six,  your  honor,  for  a  half- 
penny, w  as  it  did  when  half-pence  were  half-pence  worth.  The 
vender  contents  herself  with  silently  presenting  her  little  portable 
shop,  and  guards  against  the  rapacity  of  the  buyer  by  exhibiting 
a  very  small  parcel  of  her  wares. 

But  the  greatest  sufferers  are  undoubtedly  the  numerous  fra- 
ternity of  beggars;  for,  as  things  are  circumstanced,  it  would  be 
almost  as  profitable  to  work  as  to  beg,  were  it  not  that  many 
more  are  now  induced  to  deal  out  their  charity  in  what  is  of  no 
other  use  to  themselves,  in  the  hope  of  receiving  sevenfold  in 
return.  Indeed,  since  the  usual  donation  has  been  so  much  les- 
sened in  its  value,  the  beggars  have  been  observed  to  be  more 
vociferous  and  importunate.  One  of  these  orators,  who  takes  his 
stand  at  Spring  Gardens,  now  enforces  his  piteous  complaint 
with:  "Good  Christians,  one  good  half-penny  to  the  stone-blind"  ; 
and  another,  who  tells  you  he  has  lost  the  use  of  his  precious 
limbs,  addresses  your  compassion  by  showing  a  bad  half -penny, 
and  declaring  that  he  is  ready  to  perish  with  hunger,  having 
tried  it  in  vain  at  twenty-three  places  to  buy  a  bit  of  bread. 
Farthings,  we  are  told,  were  formerly  called  in  by  the  beggars, 
as  they  threatened  the  ruin  of  their  community.  I  should  not 
wonder,  therefore,  if  this  public-spirited  people  were  also  \o  put  a 
stop  to  the  circulation  of  bad  half-pence,  by  melting  them  down 
from  time  to  time  as  they  come  into  their  hands.  The  experi- 
ment is  worth  making;  and  I  am  assured  that,  .for  some  end  or 
other,  orders  will  be  issued  out  from  the  king  of  the  beggars,  to 
bring  all  their  adulterated  copper  to  their  mint  in  the  borough, 
or  their  foundry  in  Moorfields. 


RICHARD    BATHURST  40 1 

I  was  led  to  the  consideration  of  this  subject  by  some  half- 
pence I  had  just  received  in  change,  among  which  one  in  partic- 
ular attracted  my  regard,  that  seemed  once  to  have  borne  the 
profile  of  King  William,  now  scarcely  visible,  as  it  was  very  much 
battered  and,  besides  other  marks  of  ill  usage,  had  a  hole  through 
the  middle.  As  it  happened  to  be  the  evening  of  a  day  of  some 
fatigue,  my  reflections  did  not  much  interrupt  my  propensity  to 
sleep,  and  I  insensibly  fell  into  a  kind  of  half  slumber;  when, 
to  my  imagination,  the  half-penny,  which  then  lay  before  me 
upon  the  table,  erected  itself  upon  its  rim,  and  from  the  royal 
lips  stamped  on  its  surface  articulately  uttered  the  following  nar- 
ration :  — 

<(Sir!  I  shall  not  pretend  to  conceal  from  you  the  illegitimacy 
of  my  birth,  or  the  baseness  of  my  extraction;  and  though  I 
seem  to  bear  the  venerable  marks  of  old  age,  I  received  my  be- 
ing at  Birmingham  not  six  months  ago.  From  thence  I  was 
transported,  with  many  of  my  brethren  of  different  dates,  charac- 
ters, and  configurations,  to  a  Jew  peddler  in  Duke's  Place,  who 
paid  for  us  in  specie  scarce  a  fifth  part  of  our  nominal  and  ex- 
trinsic value.  We  were  soon  after  separately  disposed  of,  at  a 
more  moderate  profit,  to  coffeehouses,  chophouses,  chandler  shops, 
and  ginshops. 

(<  I  had  not  been  long  in  the  world  before  an  ingenious  trans- 
muter  of  metals  laid  violent  hands  on  me,  and,  observing  my 
thin  shape  and  flat  surface,  by  the  help  of  a  little  quicksilver 
exalted  me  into  a  shilling.  Use,  however,  soon  degraded  me 
again  to  my  native  low  station;  and  I  unfortunately  fell  into  the 
possession  of  an  urchin  just  breeched,  who  received  me  as  a 
Christmas  box  of  his  godmother. 

(<  A  love  of  money  is  ridiculously  instilled  into  children  so 
early,  that,  before  they  can  possibly  comprehend  the  use  of  it, 
they  consider  it  as  of  great  value.  I  lost,  therefore,  the  very 
essence  of  my  being  in  the  custody  of  this  hopeful  disciple  of 
avarice  and  folly,  and  was  kept  only  to  be  looked  at  and  ad- 
mired; but  a  bigger  boy  after  a  while  snatched  me  from  him, 
and  released  me  from  my  confinement. 

<(  I  now  underwent  various  hardships  among  his  playfellows, 
and  was  kicked  about,  hustled,  tossed  up,  and  chucked  into  holes, 
which  very  much  battered  and  impaired  me;  but  I  suffered  most 
by  the  pegging  of  tops,  the  marks  of  which  I  have  borne  about 
me  to  this  day.  I  was  in  this  state  the  unwitting  cause  of 
1 — 26 


402  RICHARD   BATHURST 

rapacity,  strife,  envy,  rancor,  malice,  and  revenge,  among  the  lit- 
tle apes  of  mankind;  and  became  the  object  and  the  nurse  of 
those  passions  which  disgrace  human  nature,  while  I  appeared 
only  to  engage  children  in  innocent  pastimes.  At  length  I  was 
dismissed  from  their  service  by  a  throw  with  a  barrow  woman 
for  an  orange. 

(<  From  her  it  is  natural  to  conclude  I  posted  to  the  ginshop ; 
where,  indeed,  it  is  probable  I  should  have  immediately  gone,  if 
her  husband,  a  foot  soldier,  had  not  wrested  me  from  her  at  the 
expense  of  a  bloody  nose,  black  eye,  scratched  face,  and  torn  reg- 
imentals. By  him  I  was  carried  to  the  Mall,  in  St.  James's  Park, 
where  —  I  am  ashamed  to  tell  how  I  parted  from  him  —  let  it 
suffice  that  I  was  soon  after  safely  deposited  in  a  night  cellar. 

<(  From  thence  I  got  into  the  coat  pocket  of  a  blood,  and  re- 
mained there  with  several  of  my  brethren  for  some  days  unno- 
ticed. But  one  evening,  as  he  was  reeling  home  from  the 
tavern,  he  jerked  a  whole  handful  of  us  through  a  sash  window 
into  the  dining  room  of  a  tradesman,  who  he  remembered  had 
been  so  unmannerly  to  him  the  day  before  as  to  desire  payment 
of  his  bill.  We  reposed  in  soft  ease  on  a  fine  Turkey  carpet  till 
the  next  morning,  when  the  maid  swept  us  up;  and  some  of  us 
were  allotted  to  purchase  tea,  some  to  buy  snuff,  and  I  myself 
was  immediately  trucked  away  at  the  door  for  the  (<  Sweetheart's 
Delight. » 

<(  It  is  not  my  design  to  enumerate  every  little  accident  that 
has  befallen  me,  or  to  dwell  upon  trivial  and  indifferent  circum- 
stances, as  is  the  practice  of  those  important  egotists  who  write 
narratives,  memoirs,  and  travels.  As  useless  to  the  community 
as  my  single  self  may  appear  to  be,  I  have  been  the  instrument 
of  much  good  and  evil  in  the  intercourse  of  mankind.  I  have 
contributed  no  small  sum  to  the  revenues  of  the  crown  by  my 
share  in  each  newspaper,  and  in  the  consumption  of  tobacco, 
spirituous  liquors,  and  other  taxable  commodities.  If  I  have  en- 
couraged debauchery  or  supported  extravagance,  I  have  also  re- 
warded the  labors  of  industry  and  relieved  the  necessities  of 
indigence.  The  poor  acknowledge  me  as  their  constant  friend; 
and  the  rich,  though  they  affect  to  slight  me  and  treat  me  with 
contempt,  are  often  reduced  by  their  follies  to  distresses  which  it 
is  even  in  my  power  to  relieve. 

w  The  present  exact  scrutiny  into  our  constitution  has,  indeed, 
very  much  obstructed  and  embarrassed  my  travels;  though  I  could 


RICHARD    BATHURST  403 

not  but  rejoice  in  my  condition  last  Tuesday,  as  I  was  debarred 
having  any  share  in  maiming,  bruising,  and  destroying  the  inno- 
cent victims  of  vulgar  barbarity.  I  was  happy  in  being  con- 
signed to  the  mock  encounters  with  feathers  and  stuffed  leather; 
a  childish  sport,  rightly  calculated  to  initiate  tender  minds  in 
arts  of  cruelty,  and  prepare  them  for  the  exercise  of  inhumanity 
on  helpless  animals! 

<(  I  shall  conclude,  sir,  with  informing  you  by  what  means  I 
came  to  you  in  the  condition  you  see.  A  choice  spirit,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Kill  Care  Club,  broke  a  linkboy's  pate  with  me  last 
night,  as  a  reward  for  lighting  him  across  the  kennel.  The  lad 
wasted  half  his  tar  flambeau  in  looking  for  me;  but  I  escaped 
his  search,  being  lodged  snugly  against  a  post.  This  morning  a 
parish  girl  picked  me  up,  and  carried  me  with  raptures  to  the 
next  baker's  shop  to  purchase  a  roll.  The  master,  who  was 
church  warden,  examined  me  with  great  attention,  and  then, 
gruffly  threatening  her  with  Bridewell  for  putting  off  bad  money, 
knocked  a  nail  through  my  middle  and  fastened  me  to  the  coun- 
ter; but  the  moment  the  poor  hungry  child  was  gone,  he  whipt 
me  up  again,  and,  sending  me  away  with  others  in  change  to  the 
next  customer,  gave  me  this  opportunity  of  relating  my  adventures 
to  you.w 

When  I  awoke,  I  found  myself  so  much  invigorated  by  my 
nap,  that  I  immediately  wrote  down  the  strange  story  which  I 
had  just  heard;  and  as  it  is  not  totally  destitute  of  use  and  en- 
tertainment, I  have  sent  it  to  you,  that,  by  means  of  your  paper, 
it  may  be  communicated  to  the  public.     I  am,  sir, 

Your  humble  servant, 

Tim  Turnpenny. 

Complete.     From  the  Adventurer. 


4°4 


CHARLES   BAUDELAIRE 

(1821-1867) 

\s  the  special  representative  of  the  French  "  Satanic "  or  <(  De- 
generate School,"  Baudelaire  is  condemned  by  Tolstoi  as  a 
poet  whose  "feelings  expressed  are  always  intentionally 
original  and  silly,"  with  a  <(  deliberate  obscurity  especially  remarkable 
in  prose  where  the  author  might  speak  simply  if  he  wished." 

It  might  be  supposed  that  the  translation  is  responsible  for  the 
way  in  which  the  words  (<  original  and  silly  B  are  coupled,  but  Tolstoi 
is  wholly  impatient  of  the  originality  which  makes  its  possessor  ex- 
clusive by  making  him  unintelligible  to  the  mass  of  mankind.  Never- 
theless, this  species  of  originality  was  greatly  striven  after  during  the 
Fin  de  Silcle  period;  and  Baudelaire,  who  is  perhaps  its  most  charac- 
teristic representative,  if  not  the  founder  of  the  school,  has  had  many 
imitators.  He  was  born  at  Paris,  April  9th,  1821,  and  died  there 
August  31st,  1867.  His  most  characteristic  work  in  verse  is  perhaps 
the  "Flowers  of  Evil,"  poems  first  published  in  1857.  As  an  es- 
sayist he  is  most  noted  for  his  "Little  Poems  in  Prose,"  the  work 
Tolstoi  disapproves  as  "intentionally  original  and  silly."  It  is  cer- 
tainly eminently  Parisian.  No  writer,  born  and  bred  out  of  Paris, 
could  have  compared  the  mist  of  twilight  covering  a  clear  sky  to  the 
black  gauze  over  the  white  skirts  of  a  ballet  dancer. 


THE   GALLANT   MARKSMAN* 

As  the  carriage  was  about  to  cross  the  woods,  he  ordered  it  to 
stop  near  a  shooting  gallery,  saying  that  he  would  like 
to  fire  a  few  shots  to  "kill  time."  To  kill  that  monster, — 
is  it  not  the  most  usual  and  most  legitimate  occupation  of  every 
one  ?  And  he  gallantly  offered  his  hand  to  his  dear,  delightful, 
and  execrable  wife,  to  that  mysterious  woman  to  whom  he  owed 
so  much  pleasure,  so  many  pains,  and  perhaps  also  a  great  part 
of  his  genius. 

*This  is  the  essay  specially  condemned  by  Tolstoi  as  being  "intentionally 
original. " 


CHARLES   BAUDELAIRE  405 

Several  balls  struck  far  from  the  mark  aimed  at.  One  of 
them  buried  itself  in  the  ceiling;  and  as  the  charming  creature 
laughed  boisterously,  mocking  the  awkwardness  of  her  husband, 
he  turned  abruptly  towards  her  and  said :  w  Observe  that  doll 
over  yonder,  on  the  right,  who  carries  her  nose  high  up  in  the 
air  and  looks  so  disdainful.  Now,  my  dear  angel,  I  will  suppose 
it  is  you ! B  And  closing  his  eyes,  he  pressed  the  trigger.  The 
doll  was  neatly  decapitated!  Then  leaning  towards  his  dear,  his 
delightful,  his  execrable  wife,  his  fatal  and  unpitying  muse,  and 
respectfully  kissing  her  hand,  he  added:  ((Ah,  my  sweet  angel, 
how  I  thank  you  for  my  skill !  n 

Complete.     From  "Poems  in  Prose. » 


AT   TWILIGHT 

The  day  is  fading,  a  great  calm  falls  on  weary  souls  worn  by 
the  labors  of  the  day;  and  now  their  thoughts  take  the 
tender  and  undecided  hues  of  twilight.  Meanwhile  from 
the  mountain  top,  across  the  transparent  clouds  of  evening,  comes 
to  my  balcony  an  uproar  of  discordant  cries,  which  space  trans- 
forms into  a  lugubrious  harmony,  like  that  of  the  rising  tide  or 
of  an  awakening  storm.  Who  are  there  so  unfortunate  that  they 
are  not  calmed  by  the  evening,  but  take,  like  owls,  the  coming 
of  night  as  a  signal  for  uproar  ?  This  sinister  ululation  comes 
to  us  from  that  dark  asylum  perched  on  the  mountain;  and,  in 
the  evening,  while  smoking  and  contemplating  the  immense  val- 
ley, dotted  with  homes,  each  window  of  which  says :  (<  Now  here 
is  peace;  here  is  family  joy,"  I  may,  when  the  winds  blow  from 
above,  sooth  my  thoughts,  astonished  at  this  imitation  of  the  har- 
monies of  hell. 

Twilight  frenzies  madmen.  I  remember  that  I  had  two  friends 
who  were  actually  made  sick  by  the  twilight.  One  of  them  dis- 
regarded all  the  relations  of  friendship  and  politeness,  and,  like  a 
savage,  ill-treated  the  first  comer.  I  saw  him  throw  at  the  head 
of  the  hotel  steward  an  excellent  fowl,  on  which  he  thought  he 
saw  some  insulting  hieroglyphic.  The  evening,  forerunner  of 
profound  pleasures,  spoiled  for  him  the  most  succulent  dainties. 
The  other,  disappointed  in  his  ambitions,  became,  as  the  day 
faded,  more  bitter,  more  sombre,  more  morose.  Kind-hearted 
and  sociable  still  in  the  daytime,  he  became  pitiless  when  even- 


406  CHARLES   BAUDELAIRE 

ing  came;  and  it  was  not  alone  against  others,  but  also  against 
himself,  that  he  directed  his  twilight  madness.  The  first  died 
insane,  incapable  of  recognizing  either  his  wife  or  child;  the 
other  carries  within  himself  the  torment  of  a  constant  uneasiness, 
and,  were  he  gratified  with  all  the  honors  that  republics  or  princes 
can  bestow,  I  still  think  that  twilight  would  light  in  him  the 
burning  desire  of  imaginary  distinctions.  Night,  which  placed 
darkness  in  their  minds,  makes  the  light  to  shine  in  mine;  and, 
although  it  is  not  rare  to  see  the  same  cause  engender  two  con- 
trary effects,   I  still  remain  both  alarmed  and  puzzled. 

O  night!  O  refreshing  darkness!  you  are  for  me  the  signal 
of  a  feast  within;  you  are  a  deliverance  from  anguish!  In  the 
solitude  of  the  wastes,  in  the  stony  labyrinths  of  a  capital,  with 
your  twinkling  of  stars,  your  flashing  of  the  lanterns,  you  are 
the  fireworks  of  the  Goddess  Liberty! 

Twilight,  how  sweet  and  tender  you  are!  The  rosy  tints  that 
linger  on  the  horizon  like  the  agony  of  day  under  the  victorious 
oppression  of  night;  the  fires  of  the  candelabrums  that  cause 
spots  of  an  opaque  red  to  appear  on  the  last  glories  of  the  sun- 
set; the  heavy  draperies  that  an  invisible  hand  draws  from  the 
depths  of  the  Orient,  imitate  the  complicated  feelings  that  strug- 
gle in  the  heart  of  man  at  the  solemn  hours  of  his  life !  Again, 
one  might  take  it  for  one  of  those  strange  robes  of  the  ballet 
dancers,  where  a  dark  and  transparent  gauze  lets  through  the 
softened  splendors  of  a  dazzling  skirt.  So  through  the  black 
present  transpierces  the  delightful  past;  and  the  stars  twinkling 
with  silver  and  gold,  with  which  the  sky  is  bespangled,  represent 
those  fires  of  phantasy  that  are  lighted  only  under  the  deep 
gloom  of  night. 

Complete.     From  «  Poems  in  Prose. » 


THE   CLOCK 

The  Chinese  can  tell  the  hour  of  the  day  by  the  eyes  of  their 
cats.      One    day  a    missionary,    while    promenading    in    the 
suburbs  of  Nankin,  noticed  that  he  had  forgotten  his  watch, 
and  asked  a  small  boy  what  time  it  was. 

This  gamin  of  the  Celestial  Empire  at  first  hesitated^  but 
then,  bethinking  himself,  replied,  (<  I  will  tell  you.  •  A  few  mo- 
ments later  he  reappeared  holding  in  his  arms  a  very  large  cat, 


CHARLES   BAUDELAIRE  4°7 

and,  looking  in  the  white  of  its  eyes  as  people  look  at  a  clock,  he 
declared  without  hesitating,  <(  It  is  not  yet  quite  midday, w  —  which 
was  true ! 

As  for  me  when  I  lean  over  towards  the  beautiful  Feline, 
who  is  so  well  named,  who  at  the  same  time  is  the  honor  of  her 
sex,  the  pride  of  my  heart,  and  the  perfume  of  my  mind,  be  it  at 
night,  in  open  day,  in  full  light,  or  in  opaque  shadow,  I  always 
see  distinctly  at  the  bottom  of  her  adorable  eyes  the  time  of  day; 
and  it  is  ever  the  same, —  one  vast  hour,  as  solemn,  as  grand  as 
space,  without  divisions  of  minutes  or  of  seconds, —  an  immov- 
able hour  which  is  not  marked  upon  the  clock;  which  is  never- 
theless as  light  as  a  sigh,  as  rapid  as  a  glance. 

And  were  any  one  impertinent  enough  to  disturb  me  while 
my  eyes  are  resting  upon  that  delightful  dial;  were  some  disrep- 
utable and  intolerant  evil  spirit,  some  demon  of  contradiction  to 
come  and  say :  What  is  it  you  gaze  upon  with  such  deep  study  ? 
What  seek  you  in  the  eyes  of  this  being  ?  Do  you  seek  the  hour 
in  them,  prodigal  and  idle  mortal  ?  I  would  unhesitatingly  make 
reply:  Yes,  I  see  the  hour;  it  is  eternity! 

Now,  madam,  is  not  this  a  really  meritorious  madrigal, — one 
as  lucid  and  as  plain  as  you  yourself  ?  In  truth,  I  have  had  so 
much  pleasure  in  embroidering  this  striking  piece  of  gallantry, 
that  I  shall  ask  for  nothing  in  exchange. 

Complete.     From  «  Poems  in  Prose. » 


408 


PIERRE   BAYLE 

(1647- i 706) 

Iayle's  News  of  the  Republic  of  Letters  (Nouvelles  de  la 
Re'publique  des  Lettres'),  which  appeared  periodically  in  1684, 
and  for  several  years  thereafter,  is  one  of  the  earliest  fore- 
runners of  the  modern  review  with  its  critical  essays  on  literary  sub- 
jects. This  venture  of  Bayle  is  now  almost  forgotten,  but  he  will 
always  be  remembered  for  his  (<  Historical  and  Critical  Dictionary, w 
which  appeared  in  1697.  In  the  modern  sense,  it  is  not  a  dictionary 
at  all,  but  a  great  collection  of  Bayle's  views  and  opinions  on  every 
subject  he  could  think  of,  the  whole  alphabetically  arranged  for 
ready  reference.  He  was  soaked  through  with  classical  learning, 
much  of  it  of  the  decadent  period,  and  it  is  unfortunate  that  some 
of  the  most  remarkable  of  his  essays  are,  because  of  this,  out  of  har- 
mony with  modern  taste.  This  does  not  prevent  the  (<  Dictionary  B  as 
a  whole  from  being  one  of  the  most  remarkable  productions  of  the 
human  mind,  scarcely  approached  by  anything  else  in  the  whole 
range  of  literature. 

Bayle  was  born  November  18th,  1647,  near  Foix,  in  the  south  of 
France,  and  educated  in  the  Jesuit  College  at  Toulouse.  His  religious 
life  shows  much  diversity,  due  to  changes  from  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  to  Calvinism  and  vice  versa,  with  a  general  tendency  to  relapse 
from  both  into  a  mild  skepticism  which  was  more  congenial  to  him 
than  either.  From  1681  to  1693  he  was  Professor  of  Philosophy  and 
History  in  the  University  of  Rotterdam.  The  rest  of  his  life  was 
devoted  chiefly  to  his  <(  Dictionary. »     He  died  December  28th,   1706. 


THE   GREATEST   OF    PHILOSOPHERS 

Aristotle,  commonly  called  the  <(  Prince  of  Philosophers, 8  or 
the  Philosopher,  by  way  of  excellence,  was  the  founder  of 
a  school  which  surpassed,  and  at  length  swallowed  up,  all 
the  rest.  Not  but  that  it  had  its  reverses  of  fortune,  especially 
in  this  seventeenth  century,  in  which  it  has  been  violently  shaken, 
though  the  Catholic  divines  on  the  one  side,  and  the  Protestant 
on  the   other,  have  run    (as  to   the    quenching   of   a   fire)    to   its 


PIERRE    BAYLE  409 

relief,  and  fortified  themselves  so  strongly,  by  the  secular  arm, 
against  the  new  philosophy,  that  it  is  not  like  to  lose  its  domin- 
ion for  a  long  time.  Mr.  Moveri  met  with  so  many  good  ma- 
terials in  a  work  of  Father  Rapin  that  he  has  given  a  very  large 
article  of  Aristotle,  enough  to  dispense  with  my  assistance.  Ac- 
cordingly, I  design  not  to  enlarge  upon  it  as  far  as  the  subject 
might  allow,  but  shall  content  myself  with  observing,  in  these 
remarks,  some  of  the  errors  which  I  have  collected  concerning 
this  philosopher.  I  think  I  have  discovered  some  in  Father 
Rapin's  account.  It  is  not  certain  that  Aristotle  exercised  phar- 
macy at  Athens,  while  he  was  a  disciple  of  Plato;  nor  is  it  more 
certain  that  he  did  not.  Very  little  credit  ought  to  be  given  to 
a  current  tradition  that  he  learned  several  things  of  a  Jew,  and 
much  less  to  the  story  of  his  pretended  conversion  to  Judaism. 
They  who  pretend  that  he  was  born  a  Jew  are  much  more 
grossly  mistaken.  The  wrong  pointing  of  a  certain  passage  oc- 
casioned this  mistake.  They  are  deceived  who  say  that  he  was  a 
disciple  of  Socrates  for  three  years  successively;  for  Socrates  died 
twelve  or  fifteen  years  before  Aristotle  was  born.  Aristotle's  be- 
havior towards  his  master,  Plato,  is  variously  related.  Some  will 
have  it  that  through  prodigious  vanity  and  ingratitude  he  set  up 
altar  against  altar;  that  is,  erected  a  school  at  Athens  during 
Plato's  life,  and  in  opposition  to  him;  others  say  that  he  did  not 
set  up  for  a  professor  till  after  his  master's  death.  We  are  told 
some  things  concerning  his  amours  which  are  not  altogether  to 
his  advantage.  It  was  pretended  that  his  conjugal  affection  was 
idolatrous,  and  that,  if  he  had  not  retired  from  Athens,  the  proc- 
ess for  irreligion,  which  the  priests  had  entered  against  him, 
would  have  been  attended  with  the  same  consequences  as  that 
against  Socrates.  Though  he  deserved  very  great  praise,  yet  it 
is  certain  that  most  of  the  errors  concerning  him  are  to  be 
looked  for  in  the  extravagant  commendations  which  have  been 
heaped  upon  him;  as  for  example:  Is  it  not  a  downright  false- 
hood to  say  that  if  Aristotle  spoke,  in  his  natural  philosophy, 
like  a  man,  he  spoke,  in  his  moral  philosophy,  like  a  God;  and 
that  it  is  a  question  whether,  in  his  moral  philosophy,  he  par- 
takes more  of  the  lawyer  than  of  the  priest;  more  of  the  priest 
than  of  the  prophet ;  more  of  the  prophet  than  of  the  God  ?  I 
shall,  in  these  remarks,  touch  upon  some  praises  bestowed  on 
him,  which  are  still  greater  than  these.  Cardinal  Pallavicini 
scruples  not,  in  some  measure,  to  confess  that  if  it  had  not  been 


410  PIERRE   BAYLE 

for  Aristotle  the  Church  would  have  wanted  some  of  its  Articles 
of  Faith.  The  Christians  are  not  the  only  people  who  have  au- 
thorized his  philosophy;  the  Mohammedans  are  little  less  preju- 
diced in  its  favor;  and  we  are  told  that,  to  this  day,  notwith- 
standing the  ignorance  which  reigns  among  them,  they  have 
schools  for  this  sect.  It  will  be  an  everlasting  subject  of  wonder 
to  persons  who  know  what  philosophy  is,  to  find  that  Aristotle's 
authority  was  so  much  respected  in  the  schools  for  several  ages, 
that  when  a  disputant  quoted  a  passage  from  this  philosopher, 
he  who  maintained  the  Thesis,  durst  not  say  <(  transeat, B  but  must 
either  deny  the  passage,  or  explain  it  in  his  own  way.  It  is  in 
this  manner  we  treat  the  Holy  Scriptures  in  the  divinity  schools. 
The  parliaments,  which  have  proscribed  all  other  philosophy  but 
that  of  Aristotle,  are  more  excusable  than  the  doctors;  for 
whether  the  members  of  parliament  were  really  persuaded,  as  is 
very  probable,  that  this  philosophy  was  the  best  of  any,  or  were 
not,  the  public  good  might  induce  them  to  prohibit  new  opinions, 
lest  the  academical  divisions  should  extend  their  malignant  influ- 
ence to  the  tranquillity  of  the  State.  What  is  most  astonishing 
to  wise  men  is  that  the  professors  should  be  so  strongly  preju- 
diced in  favor  of  Aristotle's  philosophy.  Had  this  profession 
been  confined  to  his  <(  Poetry  w  and  <(  Rhetoric,  *  it  had  been  less 
wonderful ;  but  they  were  fond  of  the  weakest  of  his  works  —  I 
mean  his  <(  Logic  8  and  <(  Natural  Philosophy. B  This  justice,  how- 
ever, must  be  done  to  the  blindest  of  his  followers,  that  they 
have  deserted  him  where  he  clashes  with  Christianity,  and  this 
he  did  in  points  of  the  greatest  consequence,  since  he  maintained 
the  eternity  of  the  world,  and  did  not  believe  that  Providence 
extended  itself  to  sublunary  beings.  As  to  the  immortality  of 
the  soul,  it  is  not  certainly  known  whether  he  acknowledged  it 
or  not.  We  shall  take  notice  in  another  place  of  the  long  dis- 
putes which  have  reigned  in  Italy  on  this  subject.  In  the  year 
1647  the  famous  Capuchin,  Valerian  Magni,  published  a  work 
concerning  the  atheism  of  Aristotle.  About  one  hundred  and 
thirty  years  before,  Marc  Anthony  Venerius  published  a  system 
of  philosophy,  in  which  he  discovered  several  inconsistencies 
between  Aristotle's  doctrine  and  the  truths  of  religion.  Cam- 
panula maintained  the  same  in  his  book,  (<  De  Reductione  ad 
Religionem,"  which  was  approved  at  Rome  in  the  year  1630.  It 
was  not  long  since  maintained  in  Holland,  in  the  prefaces  to 
some   books,  that   the    doctrine   of   this   philosopher   differed    but 


PIERRE    BAYLE  411 

little    from    Spinozism.      In    the    meantime,   if    some    Peripatetics 
may    be    believed,   he    was    not    ignorant    of    the    mystery    of    the 
Trinity.      He   made  a  very  good  end,  and  enjoys  eternal   happi- 
ness.    He  composed  a  very  great  number  of  books,  a  great  part 
of  which   is  come   down    to   us.      It  is  true,   some    critics  raise    a 
thousand    scruples   about    them.      He    was   extremely    honored    in 
his  own   city,   and   there   were   heretics  who  worshiped  his  image 
jointly  with  that  of  Jesus  Christ.      I   nowhere  find  that  the  Anti- 
nomians    bore    greater    respect    to    this    wise    pagan    than    to    the 
"Uncreated  Wisdom, w  nor  that  the  Aetians  were  excommunicated 
for  giving  their  disciples  Aristotle's  "Categories  w  for  a  Catechism. 
But   I   have  somewhere  read   that   before  the    Reformation   there 
were  churches  in  Germany  in  which  Aristotle's  <(  Ethics  w  were  read 
every  Sunday  to  the   people,   instead  of   the  Gospel.      There  are 
but    few    instances    of    zeal    for    religion    which    have    not    been 
shown  for  the  Peripatetic  philosophy;    Paul  de   Foix,  famous  for 
his  embassies  and  his   learning,   would  not  see  Francis  Patricius 
at    Terrara,    because    he    was    informed    that    that    learned    man 
taught   a  philosophy    different    from    the    Peripatetic.      This    was 
treating  the  enemies  of  Aristotle  as  zealots  treat  heretics.     After 
all,  it   is   no   wonder    that    the    Peripatetic    philosophy,  as    it   has 
been   taught  for  several   centuries,   found  so  many  protectors,  or 
that  the  interests  of  it  are  believed  to  be  inseparable  from  those 
of  theology;   for  it  accustoms  the  mind  to  acquiesce  without  evi- 
dence.     This  union  of   interests  may  be  esteemed  as  a  pledge  to 
the    Peripatetics  of   the    immortality  of    their   sect   and    an   argu- 
ment to  abate  the    hopes  of    the    new    philosophers;    considering, 
withal,  that  there  are  some  doctrines  of  Aristotle  which  the  Mod- 
erns have  rejected,  and  which   must,   sooner  or  later,  be  adopted 
again.     The  Protestant  divines  have  very  much  altered  their  con- 
duct, if  it  be  true,  as  we  are  told,   that  the  first  reformers  clam- 
ored so  loudly  against  the   Peripatetic  philosophy.      The  kind  of 
death  which,  in  some  respects,  does  most  honor  to  the  memory 
of    Aristotle    is   that    which    some    have    reported,    vis.,  that    his 
vexation  at  not  being  able  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  flux  and 
reflux    of    the    Euripus    occasioned    the    distemper    of    which    he 
died.      Some  say  that  being  retired  into  the  island  of  Eubcea,  to 
avoid  a  process  against  him  for  irreligion,  he   poisoned  himself. 
But  why  should  he  quit  Athens  to  free  himself  from  persecution 
this    way  ?      Heyschius   affirms   not   only   that   sentence   of   death 
was  pronounced  against  him  for  a  hymn  which  he  made  in  honor 


412 


PIERRE    BAYLE 


of  his  father-in-law,  but  also  that  he  swallowed  aconite  in  execu- 
tion of  the  sentence.  If  this  were  true,  it  would  have  been 
mentioned  by  more  authors. 

The  number  of  ancient  and  modern  writers  who  have  exer- 
cised their  pens  on  Aristotle,  either  in  commenting  on,  or  trans- 
lating him,  is  endless.  A  catalogue  of  them  is  to  be  met  with 
in  some  of  the  editions  of  his  works,  but  not  a  complete  one. 
See  also  a  treatise  of  Father  Labbe,  entitled  (<  A  Short  View  of 
the  Greek  Interpreters  of  Aristotle  and  Plato, B  hitherto  published; 
printed  at  Paris  in  the  year  1657  in  four  volumes.  Mr.  Teiffer 
names  four  authors  who  have  composed  Lives  of  Aristotle:  Am- 
monius,  Guarini  of  Verona,  John  James  Beurerus,  and  Leonard 
Aretin.  He  forgot  Jerome  Gemusams,  physician  and  professor  of 
philosophy  at  Basil,  author  of  a  book,  (<De  Vita  Aristotelis  et  Ejus 
Operum  Censura"  (The  Life  of  Aristotle,  and  a  Critique  on  His 
Works). 

Complete.     From  «The  Historical  and  Critical  Dictionary. » 


4'3 


JAMES   BEATTIE 

(1735-1803) 

|ames  Beattie,  the  Scottish  poet  and  essayist,  was  born  at 
Laurencekirk,  October  25th,  1735,  and  educated  at  Marischal 
College,  Aberdeen.  His  family  was  poor,  and  after  leaving 
college  he  spent  several  years  as  a  schoolmaster  in  the  Grampian 
Hills.  In  1760  he  became  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  Marischal 
College  and  held  the  position  for  many  years.  In  1773  he  began  the 
publication  of  (<  The  Minstrel, »  a  poem  which  did  much  to  make  him 
celebrated.  His  essays  published  between  1770  and  1793  are  chiefly 
on  philosophical  and  metaphysical  subjects.  They  brought  him  into 
such  favor  that  the  English  government  granted  him  a  pension  of 
,£200  a  year.     He  died  August  18th,  1803. 


AN    ESSAY   ON   LAUGHTER 

Ego  vero  omni  de  re  facetius  puto  posse  ab  homine  non  inurbano,  quam 
de  ipsis  facetiisy  disputari.—  Cicero. 

Of  man,  it  is  observed  by  Homer,  that  he  is  the  most  wretched, 
and,  by  Addison  and  others,  that  he  is  the  merriest  animal 
in  the  whole  creation :  and  both  opinions  are  plausible,  and 
both  perhaps  may  be  true.  If,  from  the  acuteness  and  delicacy  of 
his  perceptive  powers,  from  his  remembrance  of  the  past,  and  his 
anticipation  of  what  is  to  come,  from  his  restless  and  creative 
fancy,  and  from  the  various  sensibilities  of  his  moral  nature,  man 
be  exposed  to  many  evils,  both  imaginary  and  real,  from  which  the 
brutes  are  exempted,  he  does  also  from  the  same  sources  derive 
innumerable  delights  that  are  far  beyond  the  reach  of  every  other 
animal.  That  our  pre-eminence  in  pleasure  should  thus  in  some 
degree  be  counterbalanced  by  our  pre-eminence  in  pain  was  nec- 
essary to  exercise  our  virtue  and  wean  our  hearts  from  sublu- 
nary enjoyment;  and  that  beings  thus  beset  with  a  multitude  of 
sorrows  should  be  supplied  from  so  many  quarters  with  the  means 
of  comfort  is  suitable  to  that  benign  economy  which  characterizes 
every  operation  of  nature. 


414  JAMES   BEATTIE 

When  a  brute  has  gratified  those  few  appetites  that  minister 
to  the  support  of  the  species  and  of  the  individual,  he  may  be 
said  to  have  attained  the  summit  of  happiness,  above  which  a 
thousand  years  of  prosperity  could  not  raise  him  a  single  step. 
But  for  man,  her  favorite  child,  Nature  has  made  a  more  liberal 
provision.  He,  if  he  have  only  guarded  against  the  necessities 
of  life,  and  indulged  the  animal  part  of  his  constitution,  has  ex- 
perienced but  little  of  that  felicity  whereof  he  is  capable.  To 
say  nothing  at  present  of  his  moral  and  religious  gratifications, 
is  he  not  furnished  with  faculties  that  fit  him  for  receiving 
pleasure  from  almost  every  part  of  the  visible  universe  ?  Even 
to  those  persons  whose  powers  of  observation  are  confined  with- 
in a  narrow  circle,  the  exercise  of  the  necessary  arts  may  open 
inexhaustible  sources  of  amusement,  to  alleviate  the  cares  of  a 
solitary  and  laborious  life.  Men  of  more  enlarged  understanding 
and  more  cultivated  taste  are  still  more  plentifully  supplied  with 
the  means  of  innocent  delight.  For  such,  either  from  acquired 
habit,  or  from  innate  propensity,  is  the  soul  of  man,  that  there 
is  hardly  anything  in  art  or  nature  from  which  we  may  not  de- 
rive gratification.  What  is  great,  overpowers  with  pleasing 
astonishment;  what  is  little,  may  charm  by  its  nicety  of  propor- 
tion or  beauty  of  color;  what  is  diversified,  pleases  by  supplying 
a  series  of  novelties;  what  is  uniform,  by  leading  us  to  reflect 
on  the  skill  displayed  in  the  arrangement  of  its  parts;  order  and 
connection  gratify  our  sense  of  propriety;  and  certain  forms  of 
irregularity  and  unsuitableness  raise  within  us  that  agreeable 
emotion  whereof  laughter  is  the  outward  sign. 

Risibility,  considered  as  one  of  the  characters  that  distinguish 
man  from  the  inferior  animals,  and  as  an  instrument  of  harmless, 
and  even  of  profitable,  recreation  to  every  age,  condition  and 
capacity  of  human  creatures  must  be  allowed  to  be  not  unworthy 
of  the  philosopher's  notice.  Whatever  is  peculiar  to  rational  na- 
ture must  be  an  object  of  some  importance  to  a  rational  being; 
and  Milton  has  observed  that:  — 

((  Smiles  from  reason  flow, 
To  brutes  denied. w 

Whatever  may  be  employed  as  a  means  of  discountenancing  vice, 
folly,  or  falsehood  is  an  object  of  importance  to  a  moral  being; 
and  Horace  has  remarked :  — 


JAMES   BEATTIE  415 

(<  Ridiculum  acri 
Fortius  et  melius  magnas  plerumque  secat  res.}) 

Ridicule  shall  frequently  prevail, 

And  cut  the  knot  when  graver  reasons  fail. 

—  Francis. 

Let  this  apology  suffice  at  present  for  my  choice  of  a  subject. 
Even  this  apology  might  have  been  spared,  for  nothing  is  below 
the  attention  of  philosophy,  which  the  Author  of  Nature  has 
been  pleased  to  establish. 

In  tracing  out  the  cause  of  laughter,  I  mean  rather  to  illus- 
trate than  to  censure  the  opinions  of  those  who  have  already 
written  on  the  same  subject.  The  investigation  has  been  several 
times  attempted;  nor  is  the  cause  altogether  unknown.  Yet, 
notwithstanding  former  discoveries,  the  following  may  perhaps 
be  found  to  contain  something  new;  to  throw  light  on  certain 
points  of  criticism  that  have  not  been  much  attended  to;  and 
even  to  have  some  merit  (if  I  execute  my  purpose)  as  a  familiar 
example  of  philosophical  induction  carried  on  with  a  strict  regard 
to  fact  and  without  any  previous  bias  in  favor  of  any  theory. 

To  provoke  laughter  is  not  essential  either  to  wit  or  to  hu- 
mor. For  though  that  unexpected  discovery  of  resemblance  be- 
tween ideas  supposed  dissimilar,  which  is  called  wit,  and  that 
comic  exhibition  of  singular  characters,  sentiments,  and  imagery, 
which  is  denominated  humor,  do  frequently  raise  laughter,  they 
do  not  raise  it  always.  Addison's  poem  to  Sir  Godfrey  Knel- 
ler,  in  which  the  British  kings  are  likened  to  heathen  gods,  is 
exquisitely  witty,  and  yet  not  laughable.  Pope's  (( Essay  on 
Man  w  abounds  in  serious  wit;  and  examples  of  serious  humor  are 
not  uncommon  in  Fielding's  <(  History  of  Parson  Adams, w  and  in 
Addison's  account  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  Wit,  when  the 
subject  is  grave,  and  the  allusion  sublime,  raises  admiration  in- 
stead of  laughter;  and  if  the  comic  singularities  of  a  good  man 
appear  in  circumstances  of  real  distress,  the  imitation  of  those 
singularities,  in  the  epic  or  dramatic  comedy,  will  form  a  species 
of  humor,  which  if  it  should  force  a  smile,  will  draw  forth  a  tear 
at  the  same  time.  An  inquiry,  therefore,  into  the  distinguishing 
characters  of  wit  and  humor  has  no  necessary  connection  with 
the  present  subject.  I  did,  however,  once  intend  to  have  touched 
upon  them  in  the  conclusion  of  this  discourse,  but  Doctor  Camp- 
bell's  masterly   disquisition    concerning    that    matter,   in    the    first 


4l6  JAMES   BEATTIE 

part  of  his  <(  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric, B  makes  it  improper  for  me 
to  attempt  it.  I  was  favored  with  a  perusal  of  that  work  in 
manuscript,  and  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  my  notions,  in 
regard  to  the  cause  or  object  of  laughter,  so  fully  warranted  by 
those  of  my  very  learned  and  ingenious  friend.  And  it  may  not 
perhaps  be  improper  to  inform  the  public  that  neither  did  he 
know  of  my  having  undertaken  this  argument,  nor  I  of  his  hav- 
ing discussed  that  subject,  till  we  came  mutually  to  exchange 
our  papers,  for  the  purpose  of  knowing  one  another's  sentiments 
in  regard  to  what  we  had  written. 

Some  authors  have  treated  of  ridicule,  without  marking  the 
distinction  between  ridiculous  and  ludicrous  ideas.  But  I  pre- 
sume the  natural  order  of  proceeding  in  this  inquiry  is  to  begin 
with  ascertaining  the  nature  of  what  is  purely  ludicrous.  Things 
ludicrous  and  things  ridiculous  have  this  in  common,  that  both 
excite  pure  laughter;  the  latter  excite  laughter  mixed  with  disap- 
probation or  contempt.  My  design  is  to  analyze  and  explain 
that  quality  in  things  or  ideas  which  makes  them  provoke  pure 
laughter  and  entitles  them  to  the  name  of  ludicrous  or  laugh- 
able. 

When  certain  objects,  qualities,  or  ideas,  occur  to  our  senses, 
memory,  or  imagination,  we  smile  or  laugh  at  them,  and  expect 
that  other  men  should  do  the  same.  To  smile  on  certain  occa- 
sions is  not  less  natural  than  to  weep  at  the  sight  of  distress  or 
cry  out  when  we  feel  pain. 

There  are  different  kinds  of  laughter.  As  a  boy,  passing  by 
night  through  a  churchyard,  sings  or  whistles  in  order  to  con- 
ceal his  fear  even  from  himself,  so  there  are  men,  who,  by  forc- 
ing a  smile,  endeavor  sometimes  to  hide  from  others,  and  from 
themselves  too  perhaps,  their  malevolence  or  envy.  Such  laugh- 
ter is  unnatural.  The  sound  of  it  offends  the  ear;  the  features 
distorted  by  it  seem  horrible  to  the  eye.  A  mixture  of  hypocrisy, 
malice,  and  cruel  joy  thus  displayed  on  the  countenance  is  one 
of  the  most  hateful  sights  in  nature,  and  transforms  the  (<  human 
face  divine M  into  the  visage  of  a  fiend.  Similar  to  this  is  the 
smile  of  a  wicked  person  pleasing  himself  with  the  hope  of  ac- 
complishing his  evil  purposes.  Milton  gives  a  striking  picture  of 
it  in  that  well-known  passage :  — 

<(He  ceased;  for  both  seem'd  highly  pleased,  and  Death 
Grin'd  horrible  a  ghastly  smile,  to  hear 


JAMES    BEATTIE  4T7 

His  famine  should  be  fill'd,  and  bless'd  his  maw 
Destin'd  to  that  good  hour.'* 

The  pleasing  emotion  arising  from  the  view  of  ludicrous  ideas 
is  known  to  every-  one  by  experience,  but,  being  a  simple  feeling, 
admits  not  of  definition.  It  is  to  be  distinguished  from  the 
laughter  that  generally  attends  it,  as  sorrow  is  to  be  distinguished 
from  tears;  for  it  is  often  felt  in  a  high  degree  by  those  who  are 
remarkable  for  gravity  of  countenance.  Swift  seldom  laughed; 
notwithstanding  his  uncommon  talents  in  wit  and  humor,  and  the 
extraordinary  delight  he  seems  to  have  had  in  surveying  the 
ridiculous  side  of  things.      .     . 

Philosophers  have  differed  in  their  opinions  concerning  this 
matter.  Aristotle,  in  the  fifth  chapter  of  his  ((  Poetics,"  observes 
of  comedy,  that  <(  it  imitates  those  vices  or  meannesses  only  which 
partake  of  the  ridiculous:  —  now  the  ridiculous  [says  he]  con- 
flicts in  some  fault  or  turpitude  not  attended  with  great  pain, 
and  not  destructive. 8  It  is  clear  that  Aristotle  here  means  to 
characterize  not  laughable  qualities  in  general  (as  some  have 
thought),  but  the  objects  of  comic  ridicule  only;  and  in  this  view 
the  definition  is  just,  however  it  may  have  been  overlooked  or 
despised  by  comic  writers.  Crimes  and  misfortunes  are  often  in 
modern  plays,  and  were  sometimes  in  the  ancient,  held  up  as  ob- 
jects of  public  merriment;  but  if  poets  had  that  reverence  for 
nature  which  they  ought  to  have,  they  would  not  shock  the  com- 
mon sense  of  mankind  by  so  absurd  a  representation.  I  wish 
our  writers  of  comedy  and  romance  would  in  this  respect  imitate 
the  delicacy  of  their  ancestors,  the  honest  and  brave  savages  of 
old  Germany,  of  whom  the  historian  says :  (<  Nemo  vitia  ridet;  nee 
corrwupere  et  corrumpi  feculum  vocatur*  The  definition  from 
Aristotle  does  not,  however,  suit  the  general  nature  of  ludicrous 
ideas;  for  men  laugh  at  that  in  which  there  is  neither  fault  nor 
turpitude  of  any  kind. 

From  the  <(  Essavs  on  Laughter  and 
Ludicrous  Composition. n 
i — 27 


f  1  * 

.n «■//  I II    II II 'I  I II    3 


■S 
1 


If 


